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ISABEL CARLETON 
IN THE WEST 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NKW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS 
ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 

TORONTO 











ISABEL CARLETON 
IN THE WEST 


BY 

MARGARET ASHMUN 

Author of “Isabel Carleton’s Year,’* “Isabel Carleton’s 
Friends,” “Stephen s Last Chance,” etc. 


Land of alkali and copper, 
Land of sapphire and of gold. 

Song: Old Montana 


jQeto gotb 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

1919 


AU rights reserved 





Copyright, 1919 
By MARGARET ASHMUN 


Set up and electrotyped. Published, September, 1919 


OCT 29 1919 


©CI.A5:!550v: 




TO 

MY GOOD FRIENDS 

JAY HUGH PERKINS 

AND 

BERTHA HOLMES PERKINS 




CONTENTS 


CHAPTER page 

I Wind from the Rockies i 

II Golden Streets i6 

III Cabins in the Gulch 31 

IV A Closed Canyon 48 

V The Big Indian 70 

VI Burned Macaroni 98 

VII Fireworks 124 

VIII The Cloud-Burst 147 

IX Tragedy and Farce 170 

X Saving Diana 184 

XI Ranch Country 204 

XII Sapphire and Gold . 229 

XIII Decisions 252 










ISABEL CARLETON IN 
THE WEST 


CHAPTER I 

WIND FROM THE ROCKIES 

TT was late in the afternoon of a day in early sum- 
^ mer, and the through train from St. Paul was 
drawing near to the station in Helena. Two girls 
were standing in the vestibule of the Pullman car, 
peering out across the valley on one side of the train; 
and on the other side catching glimpses of the town, 
which was set back at some distance against the foot 
of a mountain. 

The fair-haired girl was evidently a newcomer to 
this region; she had the look of one who continually 
adjusts her vision to new scenes. The dark girl with 
the spirited lift of the head expressed rejoicing at 
being upon familiar ground. 

“It looks — er — smaller than I thought,’’ said 
Isabel, bracing herself against the wall of the corri- 
dor. 

“ But you can’t see the town very well from the 
station,” answered Meta. “ It’s a lot more inter- 
esting than it looks from here. I can’t imagine why 
they built the station so far out.” She smiled at her 
companion. “ Never mind the town just now. 

1 


2 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


Look out the other way, and see the Sleeping Giant.” 

Isabel bent to the window, and gazed across the 
valley to where a long range of hills had taken the 
form of a giant slumbering at ease, the various moun- 
tain tops forming the outlines of forehead, nose, chin, 
and breast. 

“ Some sleep he’s takin’, I guess,” chuckled the 
porter, who was standing at the door. “ I ain’t 
never seen him move, many times as I’ve been a-past 
here.” 

” Maybe you’ll see him rise up some day,” sug- 
gested Meta. 

“ Land o’ livin’ ! I hope not.” The porter 
looked disconcerted, as if he suspected her of speak- 
ing seriously. 

Just then the conductor came up behind them. 
“ Well, young ladies, your trip is over,” he said 
genially. He knew Meta’s father, and had watched 
over the girls in their two days’ journey as if he had 
been a discreet and benevolent uncle. 

” You’ve helped so much to make it a safe and 
happy one,” answered Isabel, rather shyly. 

” A pleasure.” The conductor smiled gravely. 
The wheels were grinding as the train came to a 
stop. ” There’s your father now. Miss Houston,” 
the conductor added, looking over the shoulders of 
the two girls. 

” Nice old Dad,” Meta murmured, her face flush- 
ing with joy. Isabel Carleton’s eyes were upon the 
attractive well-dressed woman who stood beside Mr. 
Houston on the station platform. 

“ Your mother has on the same lovely hat that she 
wore in Jefferson,” said Isabel. But in her heart she 


Wind from the Rockies 3 

was thinking, “ How glad I am to see the dear lady I 
It’s almost as good as seeing my own Mumsey.” 

The porter swung himself down the steps, with an 
incredible number of valises hung upon his person. 
The train ground itself to a standstill. Passengers 
began to push out from the corridors to the steps. 

There was a burst of greetings, laughter, kisses, 
and hilarity. Isabel and Meta found themselves 
upon the platform, being embraced by Mrs. Hous- 
ton, whose husband was now exchanging some jocose 
words with the conductor. 

“ How good it is to see you ! ” Isabel took hold 
of Mrs. Houston’s arm. Meta, after a quick kiss 
on her step-mother’s cheek, had turned to give her 
father an impetuous caress. 

“ It’s splendid that you could come.” Mrs. Hous- 
ton looked into Isabel’s gray eyes with an affectionate 
glance. “ You’re both as rosy as dairy-maids. Did 
you have a good trip? ” 

“ Oh, marvelous ! ” The girl’s face lighted. “ I 
was so interested in everything. And Meta is a 
handy guide-book in herself.” 

They looked around for the others. Mr. Hous- 
ton was slipping a bill into the expectant black hand 
of the porter. He now beckoned a red-cap to carry 
the luggage, and he and Meta came back to where 
Mrs. Houston and Isabel were standing. 

“ Meta says you had a great journey together,” 
said Mr. Houston cordially to Isabel. “ We’re tre- 
mendously glad you could keep her company.” 

“ I’m tremendously grateful to have had the op- 
portunity,” Isabel returned. “ I never enjoyed any- 
thing more.” 


4 


Isabel Garleton in the West 


Still talking, the party made their way to the auto- 
mobile waiting at the end of the platform. “ I’m so 
glad the cover’s off the car,” exclaimed Meta. “ I 
want the whole sky to expand in.” 

“ I thought you’d have some such feeling,” com- 
mented Mr. Houston. 

They all climbed into the car; but Meta stayed 
her father’s hand as he was about to set the machine 
in motion. “ Wait, Dad,” she said. “ Let Isabel 
look around.” 

Mr. Houston turned, with his hand on the wheel. 
“ Welcome to our city. Miss Isabel,” he smiled. He 
was a man of distinguished appearance, with a dark 
handsome face, and a clipped graying mustache. 
Meta’s spirited look was like his. 

Isabel gave him an appreciative glance. “ I’m 
just going to stare around as much as I like,” she 
said. “ There’s no fun in going to a new place, if 
you have to act as stolid as an Indian.” 

“ Trust you to see all there is going,” laughed 
Meta, who knew Isabel’s eager delight in new land- 
scapes and new experiences. 

The flat plain which lay between the city and the 
Little Belt range was tawny and grayish on the west- 
ern edge, where the shadows slanted down the moun- 
tains. The range itself was glowing with the light 
which the sunset cast full upon it, giving it an amaz- 
ing brilliance of crimson and blood-red. The moun- 
tains at the north, which were not in the direct line 
of radiance, showed duller tones of purple and violet 
and pink. 

“ I thought I’d seen sunsets,” Isabel cried, “ but 


Wind from the Rockies 5 

I believe this is the most glorious I’ve ever run 
across.” 

“ We have them all the time like this,” remarked 
Meta with a proprietary air. 

“ You speak as if you owned them,” teased Mr. 
Houston. “ You haven’t been here for two years; 
so we have a larger claim on them than you have.” 

“ Well, I never forget them, no matter how long 
I stay away,” answered Meta, with a fleeting grimace 
for her father. 

Isabel was still looking about, now at the city, hud- 
dled against the foot and slope of the mountain; and 
now at the valley and the ranges beyond. “ Have 
you soaked in enough?” Mr. Houston spoke quiz- 
zically to the guest. 

“ Yes,” the girl replied with a sigh. “ I think 
I’ve had all that I can stand.” 

The car moved rapidly through the outskirts of 
the town, and then down the narrow cut where Main 
Street ran. “ This is Last Chance Gulch,” Mrs. 
Houston explained. “ See how it winds up between 
Mount Helena and Mount Ascension.” Isabel 
caught a glimpse of varied business buildings which 
followed the line of what had once been a deep ra- 
vine between high hills. “ That’s Chinatown up 
there,” Mrs. Houston went on. “ It used to be the 
fine part of the city in the early days, when money 
flowed like water — or a good deal more freely than 
water; perhaps I should say as freely as champagne.” 

They climbed the hill at the other side of the gulch, 
passed the big white marble Federal Building; 
turned, followed a street which ascended toward the 


6 Isabel Carleton in the West 

mountain, and brought up at last before a huge red 
brick house, with two odd-looking towers on the 
front. “ This is our boarding-house — the one that 
Mr. Houston has always stayed at when he has had 
business in Helena,” said Mrs. Houston. “ It’s 
called the Wing House, — not because it has wings, 
but because a man named Wing built it in the mid- 
dle-early days of glory.” 

“ Do Jonathan and Ah Woo give you as good 
meals as ever? ” asked Meta, as the car stopped. 

“ Your mother thinks they’re all right, and you 
know she’s fastidious,” said Mr. Houston. 

“ Jonathan is a marvel,” Mrs. Houston added, 
as they all alighted from the automobile. 

An elderly colored man in a long-tailed coat came 
down the steps. “ Here are our young ladies, Jona- 
than,” Mr. Houston called to him. 

The negro blinked and grinned. “ I’m lookin’ at 
’em, suh,” he said respectfully. “ Of co’se I remem- 
ber Miss Meta right well.” 

“ Jonathan and I are old friends.” Meta smiled 
brightly at the cheerful servitor. 

He began taking the luggage out of the car, and 
the party mounted the steps to the long hall, where 
a steep stairway with a highly ornamented railing 
vanished into the dusk of the upper regions. At 
the end of the hall, in the shadow, Isabel caught a 
glimpse of a little old figure in a red flannel jacket 
and a flapping dusting-cap. 

“ That’s Madam Thatcher,” whispered Meta. 
“ Oh, dear, she’s gone. I wanted you to see her.” 

Isabel had heard of the strange old lady from the 
South, who had somehow drifted out here, and who 


Wind from the Rockies 


7 


was nominally the mistress of the big boarding- 
house, though in reality it was managed by a de- 
voted darkey and a Chinese cook. The girl craned 
her neck over the railing of the stairs, in the hope of 
having another look at Madam Thatcher. 

Upstairs, Isabel and Meta found that they were 
to share a large high-ceilinged room, with the furni- 
ture covered with the scrawls and scrolls of the flam- 
boyant period of decoration. 

“ I’ve always had this room when I’ve been here,” 
Meta said, taking a long breath. “ I know that 
you, with your soulful ideas of art, will think it is 
terribly ugly. But it’s been a home to me lots of 
times, when I really didn’t have any.” 

“ You’re going to have a real one, now, that your 
new mother will make for you,” said Isabel; “ and 
I love this room because you’ve lived in it. What 
do I care about a few curly-cues? ” 

The two young women had hardly freshened them- 
selves after their long trip, before a gong sounded 
through the house. “ I’m glad to hear it,” Meta 
cried, giving her nose a hasty dash of powder. 
“ I’m as hungry as if I’d never had a bite to eat in 
my life.” 

“ I’m hungrier than that,” .Isabel confessed. 

They hurried down stairs, into the gloomy dining- 
room, where vines with dark spreading leaves wan- 
dered up the wall-paper, and long velour curtains 
and lambrequins shaded the windows. 

Mr. and Mrs. Houston were already at a small 
table set for four. From the seat assigned to her, 
Isabel could see a plot of green grass, where a lawn- 
sprinkler was whirling, and beyond, a house or two 


8 Isabel Carleton in the West 

and the slope of the mountain side. As she un- 
folded her serviette, she could not help thinking of 
the time, only a few weeks before, when these same 
four people had had dinner at the Park Hotel in 
Jefferson-in-the-Middle-West, and what a trial the 
meal had been. Meta had assumed such an icy air 
toward her step-mother that the others had been al- 
most frozen with embarrassment and concern. 

“How much better it is now! ” Isabel thought, 
looking affectionately from the older woman to the 
younger. “ And how fortunate Meta is to have 
such a splendid mother to make a home for her and 
give her the love that she needs I ” 

A young colored boy came and took their orders, 
under the watchful eye of Jonathan. 

“ Jonathan does everything,” Mrs. Houston said 
presently. “ He buys the food, and keeps the ac- 
counts, and looks after the guests and their luggage, 
and attends to the dining-room, and manages Ah 
Woo, and watches over Madam Thatcher as if she 
were a baby. He seems to have a dozen eyes and 
hands.” 

“ He certainly knows how to plan a dinner; and 
Ah Woo, if that’s his name, knows how to cook,” 
said Isabel, who was beginning on the excellent meal 
which the colored boy set before her. 

And now the all-important subject was broached. 
It had been uppermost in the young women’s minds 
during all the preliminaries. “ Well, we have seen 
the boys,” said Mr. Houston. “ I suppose I may 
call them boys, even though they are grown-up young 
men with work to do in the world.” 


Wind from the Rockies 


9 


“ I suppose you may,” answered Isabel. “ Mrs. 
Houston told me on the way up that you had seen 
them. She said they were looking awfully well, 
though not so tanned as they were likely to look 
before the summer is over.” 

“ When were they here? ” asked Meta. 

Over a week ago, wasn’t it, Alice? ” Mr. Hous- 
ton responded. 

“ Yes. There were some letters for you in your 
room. Didn’t you see them?” Mrs. Houston 
looked disturbed. “I thought they were from Mr. 
Burnham and Mr. Fox.” 

“ George and Rodney,” Isabel corrected her. 
“ No, we didn’t see the letters. We were too hun- 
gry, I dare say. But they’ll wait.” 

She noted that Meta appeared impatient; Isabel 
made sly record of the fact in a smile at Mrs. Hous- 
ton. 

“ Are they up at the camp now? ” Meta inquired, 
trying not to appear too eager. 

“ Yes, they went up to get everything into shape — 
workmen’s shacks and so forth,” answered Mr. 
Houston over his roast duck. “ You know, of 
course, that they are to put in an experimental dam 
or weir, as it’s called. It’s to test the quality and 
characteristics of the stream-flow.” 

“ That sounds terribly impressive,” said Isabel, 
smiling. “ But what is it for? 

“ Oh, a hydro-electric apparatus that’s to be in- 
stalled, — water-turbines and so forth.” Mr. 
Houston’s tone implied that it was useless to try to 
explain such things to college girls. 


lO 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


“ They got the letter about the change of plan just 
before they started from Jefferson,” said Meta. 

They were rather taken off their feet.” 

“ Rodney told me he was a little surprised, but 
he didn’t say he was disappointed,” Isabel added. 

“ I don’t know that George was, either,” Meta 
responded. “ He just wasn’t quite prepared for the 
alteration in their plans.” 

“ They’ll come out all right,” commented' Mr. 
Houston easily. “ It’ll do them good to figure and 
sweat a little. There have been times when I’ve had 
to, I can tell you.” 

“How soon are we going up to the camp?” 
Meta could not conceal her eagerness now. Isabel, 
too, was all agog for the answer. 

“ Early next week. Things aren’t quite ready 
yet. There are some old prospectors’ cabins that 
we are going to use, and they have to be cleaned and 
repaired. And of course a good many things have 
to be sent up. I’ve planned it all pretty com- 
pletely,” Mr. Houston replied, with an amused 
glance for the impatience of his listeners. 

“ That’s father, all over,” remarked Meta. “ He 
loves to boss people around; and he’ll even boss 
boxes and barrels and trunks and suitcases, if he 
can’t find anything else.” 

“ Perhaps you won’t be so scornful of him, when 
you find how comfortable he’s going to make you, 
up there in the mountains,” Mr. Houston defended 
himself. 

“ Every few minutes for the last two weeks, he’s 
been jotting down some absolutely necessary thing,” 
laughed Mrs. Houston. “ I tell him he will need 


Wind from the Rockies il 

a dozen army trucks to get all his paraphernalia up 
there.” 

“ Don’t worry,” said pater familias, eating away 
comfortably. ” I’m sending things on the train to 
Martaville, and then Sammis, a man I know up 
there, who used to work for me, will haul them up to 
the camp. It isn’t far, though it’s a bit of a pull.” 

“ I’m dreadfully excited,” Isabel burst out. 
“ Wasn’t it wonderful that George and Rodney got 
this chance to come out here, and then that we could 
all be together, in this magic sort of way? ” 

“ It’s mighty fine,” said Meta. “ But of course 
Dad’s used to managing people’s lives for them,” she 
went on teasingly. “ He loves to shift ’em around 
by telegraph.” 

“ It must be splendid to do so much for others,” 
Isabel ventured. 

“ That’s nothing,” said Mr. Houston almost 
gruffly. “ The young men will have to make good, 
on their own account. Nobody can do that for 
them.” 

Isabel felt rather subdued. There were times 
when she was a trifle afraid of Mr. Houston, kind as 
he was. “ Oh, I do hope they will make good! ” 
she was thinking. 

“ It will do you both good to stay here for a few 
days,” Mr. Houston was changing the subject. 
“ You need a rest after your trip.” 

“ Oh, gracious, father,” scoffed Meta, “ the trip 
was a rest, after the whirl in Jefferson, — final exam- 
inations, and Commencement, and picnics, and par- 
ties, and water-fetes, and packing, and making the 
train. We just settled down and simmered in 


12 Isabel Carleton in the West 

leisure, when we got safely transferred in St. Paul. 
We hadn’t had a chance to breathe for weeks and 
weeks.” 

“ Dear me ! Do breathe all you like now,” Mr. 
Houston replied. “ And anyhow, Isabel ought to 
see the town.” 

“ There isn’t such a desperate lot to see,” said 
Meta; “ but Isabel is such a tenderfoot that every- 
thing seems thrilling to her.” 

“ I’m a tenderfoot, too, as far as that is con- 
cerned,” put in Mrs. Houston, who feared that Isa- 
bel might find the term displeasing. “ Though I’ve 
lived on the West Coast for a long time. I’ve usually 
gone to the shore in the summer, instead of to the 
mountains.” 

“ I don’t mind being one, at all, if I have such 
good company.” Isabel had grown very fond of 
Mrs. Houston during the few days when the new 
step-mother and her husband had visited in Jefferson. 
Those had been painful days, because of Meta’s bit- 
terness about her father’s marriage, and her deter- 
mination not to be reconciled to the usurper. 

“ We became such good friends in Jefferson that 
we are willing to be martyrs together,” Mrs. Hous- 
ton said. 

“It’s too bad you hurried off so quickly after the 
play,” Isabel complained. “ You should have 
stayed to hear the compliments that Meta had on 
her part in it. She was simply showered with 
praise, in the newspapers, and everywhere. I sup- 
pose she never told you of it in her letters.” 

“ I haven’t written any to speak of,” admitted 
Meta, flushing with pleasure at the mention of her 


Wind from the Rockies 


13 


recent successes. “ I’ve depended on telegrams and 
postal cards to keep up my end of the correspond- 
ence.” 

” I brought some clippings from the State Jour- 
nal/^ said Isabel to Mrs. Houston. “ I wanted you 
to see Meta’s glory actually in print.” 

“ I think it was that fluffy yellow dress that she 
wore that made the impression on the audience,” 
remarked Mr. Houston, who was tremendously 
proud of his daughter’s triumph in the college play 
in which she had taken a leading part. “ The dress- 
maker ought to have the glorification, don’t you 
think? ” 

“Father! How unkind!” Meta’s pout was 
not very convincing. 

“ She did look lovely,” Isabel agreed, “ and every- 
body spoke about it.” She was proud of her 
friend’s beauty and distinction. “ But after all it 
was Meta’s acting that created the furore.” 

“ And I came so near failing! ” cried the amateur 
actress, with a choke in her voice. “ It gives me the 
horrors to think of it even now. If you two peo- 
ple ” — she looked gratefully at Mrs. Houston and 
Isabel— “ hadn’t come to my rescue, I should have 
gone to pieces entirely, and humiliated myself for- 
ever.” 

“ Oh, I don’t think that could have happened,” 
Mrs. Houston returned; “ but it was beautiful that 
we were able to soothe your nervousness. I feel 
that you and I just began to get acquainted at that 
minute; and now we have all summer to renew our 
acquaintance in,” she added more softly. There 
was a happy light in her friendly blue eyes. 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


H 


“ It seems queer to make the acquaintance of one’s 
mother, when one is almost grown up,” faltered 
Meta, staring absently across the table. She was 
forgetting to eat, in the absorption of her thoughts. 

Mrs. Houston did not reply, but her look of ten- 
derness spoke more than words could have done. 
The four people were silent as the plates were 
changed; and their conversation lagged while they 
ate their dessert. 

After they had finished, Meta ran upstairs for the 
letters, and the others went out and sat on the 
porch in the dusk, and looked down at the city, now 
enveloped in deep blue shadows, with the yellow orbs 
of street lamps shining through. A faint pink re- 
flection still showed on the highest mountain tops. 
The air had suddenly become cold and bracing, and 
a keen wind swept the slope. 

Isabel felt all at once very far from home, al- 
though she was surrounded by friendship and affec- 
tion. She sat quietly, picturing the later dusk in 
Jefferson, and the outline of the dome of Main Hall 
against the sky. And then her mind raced from the 
college grounds down the leafy streets, to where a 
white house stood with light streaming from its win- 
dows. From the open door came the grave voice 
of Popsey-Professor, the shrill protests of Celia, 
who was never ready to go to bed, the coaxing or 
droll admonitions of Fanny, the “middle” sister; 
and the gentle tones of Mummy-Carleton. 

Isabel felt a lump coming in her throat. Now 
the distant scene had vanished, and she was on the 
Wing House porch, with the cold wind of the Rock- 


Wind from the Rockies 15 

ies stirring her hair and nipping her flesh. She 
reached for Mrs. Houston’s hand. 

“ Homesick? ” breathed the lady, in Isabel’s ear. 
“No — not with you,” whispered Isabel in re- 
turn. “ I was in Jefferson for a minute, and it was 
hard to come back; but I love the adventures that 
Pm having, and I love the company I’m in — and I 
know it’s going to be a wonderful summer ! ” 


CHAPTER II 


GOLDEN STREETS 

^^TTERE’S that clipping from the State Journal, 

^ said Isabel. It was the morning after the 
girls’ arrival, and Isabel was unpacking her trunk 
for her temporary stay in Helena. She and Mrs. 
Houston were in Meta’s big room, where the sun- 
shine had transformed the ugliness of wall-paper and 
furnishings. 

“ Oh, yes, I want to see it.” Mrs. Houston took 
the bit of newspaper, and stood reading it, while 
Isabel looked over her shoulder. The older lady, in 
her gown of blue linen, nearly the color of her eyes, 
appeared very young and lovely. Isabel was taller 
and more slender, with the less settled aspect of 
youth. 

“ It says just the things that one likes to have 
said.” Isabel was eager and breathless. “ Did you 
notice that about the ‘ reserve ’ and ‘ dignity ’ ? 
That’s fine, isn’t it? ” 

“ It’s just what we said,” smiled the step-mother. 
“ Those were the things that we liked best about her 
acting.” 

“ I heard it remarked more than once,” Isabel 
went on. “ People were really very enthusiastic, 
and you know a college crowd is likely to be dread- 
fully critical.” 

i6 


Golden Streets 


17 


Mrs. Houston sighed happily. “ It’s such a sat- 
isfaction to see Meta do well,” she said. “ She has 
great possibilities, I think; but she has been in 
danger of letting mere temperament overrun all her 
other qualities.” 

“ She’ll never be in any actual danger of that 
again, I’m sure,” remarked Isabel thoughtfully. 
“ She’s getting a grip on herself.” 

“ Thanks to the Carletons,” murmured Mrs. 
Houston. 

“ Oh, no ! Thanks a little to Mumsey ; but not to 
the rest of us. Meta has a lot of character and good 
sense herself.” 

“Anyhow, I’m glad she’s at Jefferson, and grati- 
fied with her success.” Mrs. Houston laid the clip- 
ping on the table. “ Now for the clothes you 
brought.” 

“ I don’t know that I need all I have here,” said 
Isabel with a dubious face, as she began pulling 
things out of her trunk. “ One always takes too 
much.” 

“ Yes, but one never knows precisely what one will 
need. Anything that you don’t want to bother with 
at the camp — the dressier sort of thing — you can 
leave here in the clothespress. I see that you have 
some good thick clothing; that’s very sensible. The 
evenings are cold in the mountains.” 

“ I’ve discovered that already,” Isabel returned. 
“ Here’s this green sweater, — and this heavy serge 
skirt.” 

“ Those are fine. And I do hope you brought 
some heavy shoes. Girls — even young ladies as 
old as you — are so foolish about shoes, some- 


1 8 Isabel Carleton in the West 

times.” Mrs. Houston spoke with the wisdom of 
one whose life had been closely associated with girls 
of all ages. 

“ I think I’m old enough to be sensible,” Isabel re- 
sponded, “ though you may be sure that Meta and I 
are not going to act like grown-ups this summer. 
Look at these, — high and heavy and brown, with 
low heels.” She held up a stout pair of boots. 
“ Stubby but smart, I call them.” 

“ They’re perfect to wear in camp,” Mrs. Hous- 
ton conceded. 

“ And here are some pumps to rest my feet in, 
after hikes and climbs; and here are some blouses 
and a linen skirt or two for warmer days.” 

Mrs. Houston was hanging the jersey and the 
serge skirt in the closet. “ You brought some frilly 
things, too,” she said. “ I see them peeping out of 
that tray.” 

“ Mother thought that some occasion might arise 
when I should need them.” 

“Indeed, yes; especially if you go on to Seattle 
with us after our camping expedition is over.” 

“ If I do. I know I should love it.” Isabel was 
taking out a white frock of soft embroidered voile. 

“ Ah, that’s the sweet little gown that you wore 
with the turquoise blue sash on the night of the 
play,” Mrs. Houston said. 

“ The same. My wardrobe is limited. And 
look. I’m not altogether frivolous. I brought 
some of my tools along so that I can do some craft 
work if I get a chance.” 

“ A nice industrious idea. I see that you have no 
notion of wasting your summer.” 


Golden Streets 


19 


“ Not 1. I thought I might do a few things and 
sell them when I go back. You see how frightfully 
commercial I’ve grown.” Isabel flushed. “ Well, 
materials are so expensive, and besides I want to buy 
some books of instruction, and some books on de- 
signing and old jewelry.” 

“ Those are high-priced on account of the plates.” 

An expression in her companion’s eyes made 
Isabel protest hastily: “No, you’re not to give 
them to me. I want to earn them myself.” 

Mrs. Houston laughed. “ You’re a mind- 
reader,” she said. “ I was thinking that I’d allow 
myself the pleasure of buying them for you. But 
you’re right. It’s ever so much more fun to earn 
things than to have them given to you.” 

“ That’s one reason why you want to keep on with 
your school, isn’t it? ” asked Isabel sympathetically. 
She paused with a lace camisole in her hand. 

“ One of the chief reasons.” Mrs. Houston took 
up an embroidered collar, and turned it unthinkingly 
in her fingers. “ Of course I love the girls and the 
work, too. Mr. Houston isn’t quite converted yet 
to the idea of my going on as director of the school, 
but I’m hoping that he will be, by fall. Men are so 
strange : he’d like to set me up in a big handsome 
house, and have me go in for bridge-parties and 
pink teas, though he despises that sort of thing him- 
self.” 

“ It would be horribly dull for you, after being in- 
terested in the real things to have to pretend an 
interest in the frivolous ones.” Isabel tied a bow 
in the pink ribbon of the camisole. 

“ Yes, it would, truly. I don’t think I could stand 


20 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


it. I like a little frivolity and diversion as well as 
any one, but for a steady diet I’m sure I should find 
them inexpressibly tiresome.” 

“ You wouldn’t be contented not to be doing some- 
thing for somebody. And oh, while I think of it, I 
must tell you how delighted Sylvia Calderwood was 
when I gave her the money from the Fund to pay her 
expenses during the summer session. You know 
Harriet Plover gave fifty dollars — it was a real 
sacrifice for her — and then your check made just 
what we needed.” Isabel’s eyes shone. The 
Molly Rarnsay Fund for helping girls through col- 
lege was one of the important things in her life. 

“ I’m very glad that the poor child didn’t have to 
renounce her diploma for the want of a little 
money.” Mrs. Houston was speaking of Sylvia 
Calderwood. 

“Just think! It made all the difference in the 
world to her — the difference between getting her 
diploma and leaving college without it. She feels so 
relieved and consoled; she’s like another girl, — not 
so sad and scared-looking. Isn’t it queer that a little 
slip of blue paper should have such an influence on a 
person’s whole career? ” 

“ It Isn’t the slip of paper; it’s the thought behind 
it.” Mrs. Houston put down the embroidered col- 
lar, and took up a gray linen skirt which Isabel had 
thrown over the foot of one of the beds. 

Just then Meta tapped at the door, and came in. 
She was freshly dressed in a white shirt-waist and 
plain skirt. “ Well, Isabel, you certainly have got 
pretty well unpacked,” she said. “ But then, 
m-mother’s been helping you.” She hesitated a 


Golden Streets 


21 


trifle on the word mother, for she had not yet become 
accustomed to using it. “ I’m going to get my trunk 
emptied, too. There’ll be a lot of things that I 
won’t want to take up to the camp with me.” She 
drew back the lid of her wardrobe trunk, and began 
taking out dresses and skirts and blouses, and piling 
them on her bed. “ It’s strange,” she said, frown- 
ing, “ how messy things look, when you take them 
out of a trunk, no matter how scientifically they are 
packed.” 

“ Yours are in much better condition than mine,” 
said Isabel, “ because I have just the ordinary old- 
fashioned trunk.” 

“ I’ll get my electric iron,” cried Mrs. Houston, 
“ and we’ll have all these pretty things freshened 
up in two minutes. You’ll both need them for over 
Sunday. I’ll put my ironing board on these two 
chairs.” 

“ Let me bring the board.” Isabel sprang up 
from where she had been rummaging in the bottom 
of her trunk. 

They soon had the board laid out and the cord 
of the iron attached to the ornate brass chan- 
delier. “ Bring on the ‘ wrinkledest ’ things first, 
and I’ll show you what an experienced presser can 
do,” said Mrs. Houston merrily. “ I’ve often 
thought I ought to be a tailoress, because I love to 
press things and make them all smooth and per- 
fect.” 

They were chatting and laughing, when an in- 
quiring miaouw sounded at the door. A big black 
cat appeared, his tail in the air, his yellow-green 
eyes fixed trustfully upon the group. 


22 Isabel Carleton in the West 

“ Ah, the old dear!” Isabel cried. “ Where did 
you come from, Bright-eyes? ” 

“ That’s General Robert E. Lee,” Meta ex- 
plained, sorting out gloves of silk and cotton and 
kid. “ He belongs to Jonathan.” 

“ Come on in,” invited Mrs. Houston, looking 
over her shoulder. “ He’s very top-lofty, and it’s 
a great compliment if he takes any interest in a 
stranger.” 

“ Cats and I are never strangers,” answered Isa- 
bel. “ Come on in, old Tootles. We love you, 
so don’t be alarmed.” 

The cat came slowly in with another interrogatory 
miaouWy and sniffed about at the clothes and shoes 
lying here and there. Then he jumped to the table, 
where he regally permitted himself to be caressed. 
Isabel put her arm around him, and laid her cheek 
against his fur. 

“ You look like a picture in an art exhibit,” com- 
mented Meta, “ with that pale green chambray 
dress, and your gold hair, and the black cat in your 
arms.” 

“ Futurist or cubist, or something like that, I sup- 
pose,” murmured Isabel, stroking the puss, who 
purred loudly and rubbed against her shoulder. “ I 
was homesick for our Bobo, I believe; and General 
Robert E. Lee sort of takes Bobo’s place.” 

“ Just as Meta and I take the place of your 
mother and Fanny,” Mrs. Houston suggested. 

“ I’m pretty fortunate to have such satisfactory 
substitutes for my relatives, human and feline,” Isa- 
bel replied. 


Golden Streets 


23 

M-mother and I don’t know which class we go 
in,” said Meta. 

“ That remark classifies you as feline,” Isabel re- 
turned quickly, “ but your mother gives every indi- 
cation of being human.” 

“ Then she’ll be interested in these books that I 
sent on by express,” said Meta. She was leaning 
over a box in the corner. “ Jonathan loosened the 
cover. Isn’t he the most thoughtful thing? ” She 
took some books out of the box and laid them on 
the table. “ See, mother,” she said, using the name 
as easily as she could, “ here are my books on the 
history of the stage, and the lives of famous actors ; 
I’m going to read them this summer. Mrs. Carle- 
ton gave me the idea. She said I’d gain a ‘ cultural 
background ’ from them ; and I was only surprised 
that I hadn’t planned some organized reading like 
that, before. Don’t they look interesting? ” 

Mrs. Houston took up the attractive volumes one 
after another. “ Delightful,” she said warmly. 
“ I’m glad you’re going to make your summer profit- 
able as well as amusing.” 

“ I couldn’t do otherwise with Isabel around,” 
Meta confessed. “ She doesn’t believe in wasting a 
vacation. She studied all the time she was in 
Europe, you know, and made up a whole year’s 
work in languages when she came back.” 

“ I had good tutors, and every opportunity to 
learn,” Isabel protested, feeling a trifle self-conscious 
at being praised for her industry; “ I’d have been a 
‘ bonehead,’ as the boys say, if I hadn’t learned a 
thing or two. And as for this summer. I’d be 


24 Isabel Carleton in the West 

ashamed to idle around all the time, when George 
and Rodney are working so hard.” 

“ I should too,” said Meta. “ I’m going to do 
my voice exercises every day; and remember we’re 
going to do French conversation at least half an 
hour every day. Little One.” 

“ No less,” Isabel assured her cheerfully. 

The work of pressing and sorting clothes, and 
hanging them away in the roomy closet went on in 
the midst of a flow of talk about college and Jeffer- 
son, and summer plans, and “ the boys.” 

“ Rodney and George are probably having the 
time of their lives up there in the mountains,” 
meditated Meta. “ Their letters didn’t say much, 
but I know they’re both crazy over being out- 
doors all summer, and getting all this experience, 
too.” 

“ It means a good deal to them,” said Isabel, with 
her forehead puckered. “ It’s quite an undertaking 
for them to put this piece of work through, when 
it’s so different from what they expected.” 

Meta looked serious, too; but when she glanced 
at Isabel’s worried face, she burst out laughing. 
“ Dear me. Goldilocks,” she exclaimed, “ any one 
would think that you were the Head Engineer of 
the American Continent, and that the affairs of the 
nation depended on you. Don’t take so much on 
your own shoulders. Those two men have had 
seven years (adding four and three) in an engineer- 
ing school, and if they can’t do what’s expected of 
them, it’s time they found it out and suffered the 
consequences. Father says it isn’t a difficult piece 
of work, anyhow.” 


Golden Streets 


25 


Isabel’s tensity relaxed. “ Of course that’s 
true,” she sighed, “ and I’m a fuss-budget, I know. 
I do wish I could learn to let things work out, in- 
stead of fretting over them.” 

“ We’ve nearly finished, now,” said Mrs. Hous- 
ton, looking around the room. ” Suppose we put 
away our iron, and go down town before luncheon. 
I think I heard you both say you wanted to buy a 
few little things.” 

“Yes; ink, and shoe-polish, and some postal 
cards,” said Isabel. 

“ Soap and hairpins,” supplemented Meta; “ and 
a magazine, and some stamps.” 

“ Then we’ll go. Isabel hasn’t seen our village 
yet, except the glimpse from the car last night, and 
the view from the front porch.” 

They hurried to make themselves neat, and 
started out for the walk down the hill and into the 
gulch where Main Street had been built. 

In the upper hall, they met Madam Thatcher. 
She was strangely clad in the red dressing-jacket 
and a white dusting-cap. “ Good morning. Madam 
Thatcher,” called Mrs. Houston. 

“ Good morning, dear.” The ancient lady 
turned toward them a gentle bewildered face. 

“ I’m Mrs. Houston,” reminded the speaker 
quietly. 

“ Oh, yes. I know you, of course.” A light 
came into the faded blue eyes. “You must forgive 
an old lady for being dull.” The words were 
spoken with a grace of manner which recalled the 
elder days of courtesy. “ And this is your daughter. 
I’ve known her for a long time, but she stays 


26 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


away — ” The voice grew vague, and the eyes 
wandered. 

“Yes, she’s in college, you know,” said Mrs. 
Houston. “ This is one of her college friends. Miss 
Isabel Carleton.” 

“ I’m glad you’re here, dear.” The old lady 
smiled at Isabel, and quite unexpectedly put out her 
hand. It was soft and blue-veined; on one finger 
shone a great diamond in an old-fashioned black 
enamel setting. 

Isabel loved old people. She felt a throb of pity 
and affection for this aged creature, as she pressed 
the aristocratic white hand. 

They went on down stairs. “ She’s a dear old 
thing,” said Isabel in a low tone. 

“ Yes, very gracious and charming,” agreed Mrs. 
Houston. “ But she doesn’t see very well, and she 
confuses people. She comes of fine Southern stock, 
they say. And ‘ they say,’ too, that she has quan- 
tities of lovely things — clothes and laces and jew- 
elry — left over from her former splendor, and that 
Jonathan will never let her sell one of them, but 
insists on providing for her by keeping this boarding- 
house. He’s one of the house-servants that she had 
in the South — descended from the slaves that the 
Thatchers had before the Civil War.” 

“ It’s awfully interesting and romantic.” Isabel 
liked a picturesque situation, and here was one quite 
to her mind. She thrilled as she went out from 
the towered house into the bright sunshine of the 
June day. 

Across the city and the flat Prickly Pear Valley, 
the mountains were blue and clear-cut against the 


Golden Streets 


27 


sky. Near at hand, a few trees bordered the side- 
walk — not the huge elms and maples of Jefferson, 
but small box elders and cottonwoods. The houses 
were well painted and carefully kept. 

“ These are literally the golden streets,” re- 
marked Mrs. Houston as the trio approached the 
busier thoroughfares. “ Mr. Houston tells me that 
there is a good deal of gold right under foot. Every 
time the foundation of a building is dug, the small 
boys hang around to hunt for nuggets.” 

“Imagine it!” The tenderfoot was much im- 
pressed. 

“ Chinamen still do a little placer mining on the 
very edge of town, over there,” said Meta. “ They 
can always wash out a thimbleful of dust. You 
know this used to be one of the richest towns in 
the world, and one of the most exciting. Probably 
you’ve heard the stories about the desperadoes and 
the Vigilantes.” 

“ Only vaguely,” answered Isabel. “ I’d love to 
hear all about those wild old days. The town looks 
disappointingly calm and law-abiding now.” 

“ I suppose you’d like to have a lot of drunken 
miners come galloping in and shoot up the town, 
or hang some one for your amusement,” Meta sug- 
gested. 

“ No, hardly. But I am frightfully fond of ‘ at- 
mosphere.’ ” 

“ There’s a lot of that. I never breathed more 
exhilarating air,” said Mrs. Houston. 

“Oh, is that a cow-puncher?” Isabel indicated 
a fantastic being in goatskin “ shaps ” dyed a bright 
yellow, waistcoat open from neck to hem, and gray 


28 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


flannel shirt. He had a bright handkerchief 
around his neck, and a “ Stetson felt ” on his head. 

“ Yes. One doesn’t see them often on the 
street,” returned Meta easily. The delight of these 
well known streets was keen to her. 

Isabel stared at two Chinamen in black brocaded 
tunics and woolen slippers and round hats. They 
glided noiselessly along, engaged in their queer 
gobbling conversation. Then came a lounging fig- 
ure in a green velvet “ vest,” and high-crowned hat, 
and gay-colored kerchief. 

“ Mexican,” Meta explained, following Isabel’s 
eye. “ Scarce as hen’s teeth.” 

There were numbers of well dressed people going 
back and forth, but Isabel regarded them with a 
disappointed air. She was happier when she saw 
a “ real live Indian,” even though he was decked 
out in ill-fitting “ store clothes,” except for his 
beaded moccasins. 

“ There is a good deal of picturesqueness left,” 
said the newcomer, “ even if most of it is hopelessly 
conventional and modern.” 

“ It’s only the silly Easterners that expect an up- 
and-coming city like Helena to be seventy-five years 
behind the times,” Meta remarked with scorn. 

Isabel felt subdued, and looked about furtively 
for “ local color,” without daring to comment on it 
when she found it. 

The three women went into various shops and 
made their purchases. Every time that they came 
out upon the street, Isabel took new pleasure in the 
sight of Mount Helena rising above the town, and 
the more distant blue ranges which encircled it. 


Golden Streets 


29 

“ I wish mother could see this,” she said under 
her breath. “ How she would love the color ! ” 

They were passing a jewelry store, when Meta 
cried, “ Oh, Isabel, let’s giO in and see whether you 
can get some unset Montana sapphires at a reasona- 
ble price. You know you like my ring, and you’ve 
often said you wished you could get some stones of 
that sort to work up in your silversmithing.” 

“ I’d be overjoyed,” said Isabel hesitatingly, 
“ but I’m afraid they’d cost too much.” 

“ Let’s go in and see, anyhow,” Mrs. Houston 
encouraged her. 

They went in and asked to see the stones. The 
proprietor laid some of the sapphires out on a black 
velvet pad for their inspection. 

“ What lovely color! ” they all exclaimed. The 
clear pale drops sparkled on the dark background, 
and Isabel could not keep her eager fingers from 
them. 

“ They’re exquisite,” said Isabel. “ I should 
love to try to set them. I make hand-made jew- 
elry,” she explained. “ How much are they? ” she 
asked after a pause. 

The jeweler named a figure which seemed pro- 
hibitive to Isabel. Her face fell. “I — I think 
they’re too dear for me,” she faltered. “ I’m 
sorry, but I won’t take any. I shall have to go on 
making things with abalone shells and agates and 
moonstones.” 

“ Well, those are very pretty,” said the man po- 
litely, “ but I’m sure you’d enjoy working with 
these.” 

“ I’m sure I should,” said Isabel regretfully. She 


30 Isabel Carleton in the West 

laid down the two stones which she had been examin- 
ing. “ Perhaps I shall come in again. Thank you 
very much.” 

She and Mrs. Houston and Meta walked out into 
Main Street again. “ They did seem expensive for 
that sort of work,” Meta remarked, “ and probably 
you can do better if you watch your chance. Unless 
you were sure of selling what you made, it would be 
too much to invest.” 

“ I’ll live in hope,” returned Isabel, who was 
really more disappointed than she showed. The 
clear blue stones had bewitched her with their charm. 
“ I do want to make some very attractive things, if 
I can, and have them ready to sell for the Fund in 
the fall. We’ll need every cent that we can get.” 

“ I believe you’ll have what you need,” said Mrs. 
Houston. S'he glanced at the gold watch at her 
wrist. “ We have just time to get home for lunch. 
Mr. Houston will be back, waiting for us. And do 
you realize that to-morrow is Sunday? We’ll go 
to church, and have a calm, leisurely day, and then, 
on Monday or Tuesday, we’ll flit away to the moun- 
tains.” 

“ It seems too glorious to be true,” Isabel sighed. 
“ I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such good 
times.” 

“ That’s your old New England theology talk- 
ing,” scolded Meta. “ Of course you deserve all 
the good times you get, and you ought to take them 
and be joyful.” 

“ Trust me. Pm going to,” said Isabel. 


CHAPTER III 


CABINS IN THE GULCH 

‘^Tj^IVE o’clock,” said George Burnham. “ I 
don’t see how they can be very much longer 
in coming.” 

“ They’re sure to be here within half an hour,” 
responded Rodney Fox. He put his head on one 
side, and regarded the canopy of wild clematis 
draped over the projecting ridgepole of the log 
cabin before him. “ I hope the posies won’t fade 
until after the crowd arrives.” The vines with their 
delicate purple blossoms were still fresh from recent 
picking and a sprinkle of water from the stream 
below. “ Pretty scrumptious looking bower, eh, 
George? ” 

“ I think we’ve done ourselves proud.” George 
returned the smile of his companion. “We 
couldn’t have picked out an afternoon more to the 
Queen’s taste, either. It’s a great day and a great 
scene.” 

The two young men in corduroy outing clothes, 
and gray flannel shirts and puttees, stood looking 
around them at the mountain landscape. All about 
were the gray- or green-clad hills, some with white 
tops, and some dulled and vanishing in a mist of 
blue. The sun was low, and the nearer mountains 
were already in shadow; the yellow light poured 
down the valley, where an impatient stream foamed 

31 


32 Isabel Carleton in the West 

and chattered and chuckled in incessant sound and 
motion. 

The boys stood on a slope above the stream, and 
behind them as they faced the valley, a rough cliff 
arose against the sky. Between them and the cliff 
were three weather-beaten cabins and a tent. A 
ravine cut the cliff not far beyond the tent. 

“ Those cabins certainly fill the bill,” commented 
George as he turned to look again at the three rude 
structures, as gray and primitive as the rocks behind 
them. 

“ The old prospectors who built them built for 
keeps,” said Rodney. “ We’re indebted to them 
for our palatial residences, and they themselves took 
their departure to the Lord-knows-where, a good 
many years ago.” 

“ I suppose they’ve struck ‘ pay-dirt ’ in the 
golden streets, long before this,” answered George 
more seriously than his words would indicate. 
“ But they had a great life while it lasted — full of 
adventure and expectation.” 

“ I hope some of it was realization, too,” said 
Rodney. “ It’s thrilling enough for a while to be 
on the still-hunt for a fortune, but it must be monoto- 
nous to go on for years and never strike it rich.” 

“ The hotel clerk in Helena told me about an 
old man nearly eighty-five years old,” George re- 
plied, “ who was still seeking for a pay-streak over 
there in Confederate Gulch a few years ago. He 
lived alone in a cabin like these, but in the winter 
the ranch people would take him in and keep him. 
Early in the spring he’d be out and at it again. He 
never gave up until the last.” 


Cabins in the Gulch 


33 


“ It gets to be an obsession,” meditated Rodney. 
He came back to the present situation. “ It was 
fine that the tent fitted in so trig between the cabins 
and the ravine. I’m glad that you and I are to 
sleep under the canvas, too, for I should hate to 
be shut up with doors and a roof, even in a cabin, 
while we’re out on this adventure.” 

“ Ha ! I have an idea,” exclaimed George. 

“ Hold it hard,” Rodney warned him. “ You 
may need it in your business.” 

“ Perhaps I’ll get another sometime,” George re- 
torted. “ I’ll take a chance on it.” 

“ Then divulge the secret.” 

‘‘ Let’s put up signs showing which cabin is which. 
The cook-house can be Delmonico’s.” 

“ Oh, say! that’s not bad at all. The bower for 
the girls can be the Ritz-Carlton.” 

“ Hey, some joke for Isabel.” 

“ I didn’t mean to pun, but all the better. The 
Houstons’ hut can be the Waldorf.” 

They ran to the tool-shed at some distance down 
the bank for paint and shingles. In a few minutes 
they were nailing up the neatly lettered signs over 
the doors of the cabins, among the drooping ten- 
drils of the clematis. 

“And now our tent; we’ve got to have a name 
for that,” frowned George, standing with hammer 
in hand. 

“ Let’s call it the Hermitage,” suggested Rodney. 

“ That’s the men’s hotel in New York, isn’t it, 
on Broadway somewhere? ” 

“ Yes; that’s one place where the men have things 
all to themselves.” 


34 Isabel Carleton in the West 

“ It’ll be a polite fiction in our case, inasmuch as 
the tent has got to be the family sitting-room in the 
daytime.” 

“ Well, never mind,” Rodney answered. 
“ Maybe it will be a hint for the family to clear out 
when we get to nodding after our day’s work.” 

They prepared and nailed up the last sign; and 
then the two young engineers sat down on a rock 
to wait. Their faces grew sober as they contem- 
plated the stream. The weir which they were to 
build was to measure the force of the river and to 
bind its power to be the servant of men. 

George Burnham was broad shouldered and 
strong, with keen blue eyes and auburn hair, thick 
and rebellious. There was a frank and wholesome 
air about him which made him welcome in any circle. 
Rodney was slenderer and more reserved, with 
brown hair and straightforward hazel eyes. As the 
young men sat silently on the rock, they were both 
brooding on the work which lay before them. Their 
boyish jesting had given way to serious contempla- 
tion. 

“ It isn’t any harder than the railroad work 
would be,” said Rodney after a while, “ now that 
we’re started at it. I’m glad I had that hydraulic 
course with Carmichael.” 

“ We’re certainly safe in choosing that spot for 
the weir,” George replied, returning to the subject 
on which the two had spent the larger part of the 
day. “ The narrowness of the stream, and the 
nearness of the sand for our concrete — ” 

They went on talking over for the fiftieth time 


Cabins in the Gulch 35 

the possibilities of the place upon which they had 
settled for the building of the dam. 

“ Bossing those Greasers and Dagoes will be a job 
in itself,” Rodney said, throwing pebbles down the 
slope into the water. “ You’ve had a little experi- 
ence in bossing a stenographer or a janitor, but I’m 
like a babe in arms.” 

“ Babes in arms can be bosses, all right. I’ve 
seen ’em run a whole block. All they have to do 
is to yell loud enough, and they get what they 
want.” 

“ I guess I can do that,” grinned Rodney. “ I’ll 
yell like a Comanche, if that will do the trick.” 

The shadows of the mountains had grown longer, 
and the stream was losing the golden flecks which 
had been scattered among the ripples. The moun- 
tain tops were turning pink as the sun sank. 

“Hark! a sail on the horizon!” This from 
George. 

“ They’re coming at last,” exclaimed Rodney. 

They started up, alert and glowing. The rattle 
of a vehicle became distinct in the air, and the im- 
pact of horses’ hoofs upon the road. The sounds 
grew nearer; and then up the valley and into sight 
beyond the turn of the cliff and ravine came a small 
procession in the full light of the sunset. 

First came a buckboard drawn by mules and 
driven by a man hunched up on the front seat; on 
the back seat were two women. Then came a man 
and a girl riding bronchos. The girl sat astride and 
managed her horse with the ease of the man. 

The young men put their hands to their mouths 


36 Isabel Carleton in the West 

and whooped a wild whoo-hoo of welcome. An an- 
swering shout echoed along the valley. Mr. Hous- 
ton waved his cap. 

“ Meta rides as if she had lived in a saddle,” 
George remarked with something of pride in his 
voice. 

“ She looks like a Valkyrie, or whatever it is,” 
Rodney answered. 

“Aha, tenderfeet! ” jeered George, directing his 
jibe at Mrs. Houston and Isabel, riding in state in 
the buckboard. 

“ Tenderfeet yourselves.” Mrs. Houston shook 
an umbrella at him in mock resentment. 

The two broncho-riders pushed on ahead and dis- 
mounted at the foot of the slope. Mr. Houston 
wore a tweed hunting-suit and puttees, a costume 
which gave him a dashing Western air. Meta, in 
red jersey and black skirt and a tilted hat was as 
usual a jaunty figure. 

There was a quick outburst of gayety as the four 
shook hands with one another. 

“ Any rags, any bones, any bottles to-day? ” called 
Isabel from the buckboard. She and Mrs. Houston 
sat among a miscellaneous array of suitcases, bun- 
dles, and mysterious knobby parcels. 

She and Mrs. Houston alighted amid more greet- 
ings and handshakings. It was a happy reunion 
for the young people. George and Rodney had left 
Jefferson two weeks before, Rodney having gained 
permission to leave before the college Commence- 
ment. The two girls had stayed on, and journeyed 
v/estward at a more leisurely rate. 

“ We feel like Robinson Crusoes being discovered 


Cabins in the Gulch 37 

on our island,” laughed Rodney. “ Being up here 
is almost like being marooned in the Pacific.” 

“ We’re as hungry as cannibals,” Isabel made an- 
swer. This mountain ozone is the strongest sort 
of tonic.” Her white felt hat and trim serge suit 
were appropriate and becoming. Her cheeks were 
redder than usual, and her eyes shone. 

“ What a wonderful spot 1 ” Mrs. Houston was 
looking about eagerly at the view. 

‘‘ I’ve exhausted every adjective I ever heard of,” 
Isabel complained. “ Mrs. Houston and I have 
shouted out in chorus all the way up from the sta- 
tion. I haven’t any words of rapture left. And 
those two ” — she indicated Meta and her father 
— “ have jogged along talking about Edwin Booth 
or some such thing, as if there were no scenery hung 
up along the line at all.” 

“ We’ve seen something like it once or twice be- 
fore,” Meta defended herself, “ and even more 
thrilling mountain-scapes, if the truth were told.” 

“ This is thrilling enough for me,” smiled Mrs. 
Houston. 

“ Welcome to our home I ” George and Rodney 
stood bowing at each side of the door of the middle 
cabin. 

The signs above the doors now caught the eyes 
of the newcomers. “ The Ritz-Carlton ! I know 
where I belong,” Isabel cried gayly. “ And what a 
bower ! The clematis is lovely. And these are the 
old prospectors’ cabins that we’ve heard about. 
What did they have such long ridge-poles for? ” 

“ To hang the desperadoes on,” said Mr. Hous- 
ton. “ The woods — or, rather, the mountains — 


38 Isabel Carleton in the West 

were full of them, you know, and hanging them 
now and then was one of the amusements of the 
early days.” 

Isabel hardly knew whether to be distressed or 
not. Meta laughed scornfully. “ Don’t be silly. 
Goldilocks,” she said. “ He’s only fooling you.” 

Mr. Sammis, the driver, a round-faced man in 
rough clothes, was enjoying the gayety while he un- 
loaded the luggage and parcels. A few bundles he 
carried into Delmonico’s. “ Anything you don’t 
know what else to do with you can chuck in the 
Hermitage,” said George. 

Mr. Houston’s lips twitched as he surveyed the 
sign. “ I’ve stayed there many a time,” he re- 
marked. “ I hope the beds are as soft as they used 
to be.” 

“ Afraid not,” Rodney answered. “ The best 
mattresses went into the Waldorf and the Ritz.” 

The girls were eagerly pushing open the door of 
the Ritz-Carlton, to see what their quarters were 
like. The floor and the windows had been renewed, 
and now glowed in fresh cleanliness. At the end 
of the room there was a crude fireplace, in which 
a few embers burned. Bright blankets hung against 
the log-and-mortar walls, and covered the two cots 
disposed in opposite corners. A pine table, two oak- 
framed looking-glasses, and a few camp stools com- 
pleted the furnishings. 

“Ah, it’s a boudoir!” cried Meta. “And the 
out-doors has been brought in for us.” Great clus- 
ters of wild holly and clematis surrounded the mir- 
rors, and a rough earthen jar full of flowers stood 
on the table, which had a cover of brown burlap. 


Cabins in the Gulch 


39 


‘‘A palace! ” echoed Isabel. “You’ve given us 
all the luxuries,” she called to the young men out- 
side. 

“ All the comforts of home, but few of the lux- 
uries,” George replied. “ In fact, you’re reduced 
to the level of the Indians, I fear.” 

“ Then we’re Indian princesses,” said Isabel. 

“ Even Indian princesses don’t have white-tiled 
bathrooms at their disposal,” George returned, 
“ and they experience a sad lack of spindle-legged 
dressing-tables and embroidered bed-spreads.” 

“ We can stand it if they can,” said Meta from 
the doorway. “ I’ve often seen them living happily 
in a teepee, with a blanket and a kettle, and wished 
that I could reduce things to their simplicity.” 

“ You’ve got your wish,” George responded as 
he turned away. 

In the midst of the gabbling, the luggage and the 
supplies were disposed of, and Mr. Sammis mounted 
the seat of the buckboard for his return to the vil- 
lage. “ Can he make it in the dusk? ” asked Mrs. 
Houston anxiously. 

“ The mules are surer-footed than horses, and 
there’s a glow in the sky at twilight, so that it doesn’t 
get dark for a long time,” Mr. Houston reassured 
her. 

The girls had taken off their hats, and were ready 
for further investigations. They quickly inspected 
the tent, which contained only the two cots on which 
the engineers were to sleep, a table with a big oil 
lamp, a few chairs, and a wash-stand behind a bur- 
lap screen. 

“ Now for Delmonico’s,” they exclaimed. 


40 Isabel Carleton in the West 

A Mexican olla for cooling water hung from the 
ridgepole of the cabin. “ It looks picturesque,” 
said Isabel. “ But does it represent our entire 
water-supply? ” 

“ There’s a spring gushing out of the ravine,” 
Rodney explained, “ that’s as cold as Keeley’s lem- 
onade, and the creek out here is always too cool for 
comfort.” 

“ I think we can get along, then.” Isabel was 
pushing open the door of the cook-cabin. She 
found a large oil-stove, with an oven, occupying the 
place of honor along one side wall. Along the 
other there was a table covered with white oilcloth. 
All sorts of utensils were arranged upon the walls, 
on hooks and nails and shelves. Cans and boxes 
and cartons and bags of food were everywhere. 

“ No starvation in sight,” exulted Meta. 

“ Mr. Houston evidently thought he was provid- 
ing for a regiment,” said Isabel. 

“ Dad never does things by halves,” answered 
Meta, “ and he’s always afraid that somebody’s go- 
ing to go hungry or not get enough to eat.” 

“ No danger, with all these stacks of provisions.” 

Meta put her hands into the pockets of her red 
jersey. “Who’s cook?” she called, assuming in- 
difference to the reply. 

“ We are, to-night,” George responded. “ The 
rest of you are our guests; but after this every- 
body’ll have to pitch in. You know, we’re working 
men, and not lily-fingered loungers — like some peo- 
ple I could mention.” 

“ Now, George, that’s mean,” protested Isabel. 
“ We’re all planning to work.” 


Cabins in the Gulch 


41 


“ Hemstitch a handkerchief, I suppose, or sew 
a yard of lace on one of those chiffon waists, or 
Georgette, or whatever you caU ’em.” 

“ More than that,” Isabel pouted. “ But I sup- 
pose we may seem rather idle beside you two slaves.” 

“ We’ll argue that some other time. Now, you 
new arrivals can wander around and look at the 
scenery until the supper-bell rings. You’ll get all 
the culinary science you want after to-night.” 

“ Are we going to eat in the kitchen? ” Meta In- 
quired. 

“ Not so. You’re going to eat under the broad 
blue sky.” 

“ Well, all I ask Is to have it quick,” said Meta. 

The two girls strolled out behind the tent, and 
discovered the Ice-cold spring. In which the boys had 
built a covered “ cellar ” where butter and other food 
could be kept. The slender rivulet from the spring 
followed the course of the low ravine, and ran Into 
the larger stream. The girls stepped across this 
trickle of water, and followed the bank of the creek. 
It showed a pebbly bottom, with here and there a 
dark pool where there was a tumultuous swirl. 

Around the shoulder of the cliff, the girls came 
upon Mr. and Mrs. Houston looking at the camp, 
at some distance away, where the workmen’s shacks 
had been hastily erected. The men were gathered 
around on the edge of the stream and a Chinese cook 
came and went, putting things^ to rights after the 
evening meal. 

“Aren’t they an unusually rough-looking lot?” 
asked Mrs. Houston. “ They look like brigands, 
and I’m more than half afraid of them.” 


42 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


“ So am I.” Isabel took hold of Meta’s arm. 

“ Oh, they’re all right,” said Mr. Houston easily. 
“ They look wild, but they’re a harmless bunch. 
Chelford is pretty careful about his workmen. Of 
course, now that the war is on, he has to take what 
he can get. But you don’t need to give them a mo- 
ment’s thought.” 

They all turned back, and seated themselves on 
a rock in front of their own “ village,” and chatted 
about the scene and the trip from Helena. The 
tops of the mountains had now grown redder, and 
the valley was suffused with a carmine glow. 

In a surprisingly short time, the call came for 
supper. “ I hope they’ve cooked a goose and a 
peck of potatoes,” said Meta, “ and a half-bushel 
of apple-dumplings, and — ” 

“ Don’t worry,” said her father. “ You won’t 
see goose until — ” 

“ Until I look in the glass, I suppose you’re going 
to say,” interrupted Meta. 

“ Until you get back to college.” Mr. Houston 
finished his sentence. 

It wasn’t goose, but it was fried mountain trout. 
“Almost as good,” condescended Meta; and 
“ much better,” declared Mrs. Houston. The 
table consisted of boards laid on trestles, so that it 
could be used either indoors or out. White oilcloth 
served instead of linen, and camp-stools instead of 
chairs. 

The cooks beamed at the praise of their trout 
and fried potatoes and hot coffee. “ What’s puz- 
zling me is how we’re going to get bread,” Meta re- 


Cabins in the Gulch 43 

marked, as she took a fat white slice. “ Who 
knows how to make it, in this crowd? ” 

“ I do,” said Mrs. Houston. “ I’ve made many 
a crusty loaf; but your father has arranged with 
Mrs. Sammis to send us up bread and cake with the 
other supplies that Mr. Sammis brings. We don’t 
want the children crying for bread.” 

“ There’ll be fresh vegetables and other things,” 
Mr. Houston assured his flock. “ I know the ap- 
petites of mountaineers.” 

There was talk of the work to be done, and of 
the plan for changing off, so that justice might be 
meted out among the workers. “ We mustn’t let 
Mrs. Houston play the slavey for us just because 
she knows how to do things,” said Isabel. 

“ I don’t know how to cook,” wailed Meta, laying 
down her fork. “ I’ll give you shredded wheat bis- 
cuit when it comes my time to cater.” 

“ You should have thought of your qualifications 
before you joined the party,” said Mr. Houston se- 
verely. “ We’ll give you a week to learn, and if 
you don’t rise to the occasion, out you go.” 

Meta glared at him apprehensively over her plate. 

“ Isabel’s a shark at cooking,” spoke up Rodney. 
“ She can make anything, from soo-flay to head- 
cheese.” 

“ Oh, Rod, I can make a few little things, but 
not much,” said Isabel. “ You’re a shark yourself 
at flap-jacks. Don’t you remember how you made 
them for the whole crowd out at Lake Kegonsah 
last fall?” 

“ Well, I’m a working-man now,” Rodney an- 


44 Isabel Garleton in the W est 

swered. “ I can’t be a cook or a second girl, much 
as I’d like to.” 

The chill of evening settled over the valley, and 
jackets and sweaters had to be brought before the 
meal was finished. The dessert was merely a big 
dish of oranges, to be eaten in nature’s simple 
way. 

“ We’ll wash the dishes,” said Rodney. “ George 
and I, I mean. We have two huge kettles of water 
heating on the stove.” 

Lamps were lighted in the cabins, and the win- 
dows took on a homelike look. The twilight was 
now deepening into night. Stars came out in the 
vast blueness above. 

“ The sky never looked so mysterious before,” 
said Isabel, “ nor the stars so golden.” 

The peaks turned dark, except where one here or 
there shone a pinkish gray. The rush and humming 
of the stream seemed more insistent. It sounded 
like human voices murmuring together and calling 
unintelligible adjurations. 

“ Ha ! there’s a coyote,” said Meta suddenly. 
“ I wanted you to hear one. Miss Tenderfoot.” 

A thin, quavering wail rose among the opposite 
slopes, and trembled away into a snarl. “ Gracious, 
how badly he feels ! ” cried Isabel. “ He must have 
lost his dearest friend.” 

“ Or missed his supper,” added Mr. Houston. 

“ What does he look like? ” asked Isabel. 

“ Like a skinny gray cur,” answered Mr. Hous- 
ton. “ You’ll see one skulking around, some day, 
and call, ‘ Doggie, doggie ! ’ ” 

“ I’ll run a mile,” Isabel replied, laughing. 


Cabins in the Gulch 


45 

“ Oh, they won’t hurt you if you leave them 
alone,” Meta assured her. 

“ Leave them alone ! Goodness, what would I 
do to them? ” 

The group took steamer rugs out and spread them 
on the rocks, and sat looking about, as if they could 
never get enough of this mountain scenery. A keen 
wind came singing down the valley. 

Isabel shivered. “ It must be pretty high here,” 
she ventured. 

“ Yes; about five thousand feet. The nights are 
always cool, even cold, though the day may be fairly 
hot. And there are no flies or mosquitoes,” Mr. 
Houston replied. 

“ Thank heaven for that,” said Isabel fervently. 

“ I’ve been on camping trips when we were nearly 
driven mad by both, and nothing could keep them 
out.” 

“ You won’t have any such trouble here.” Mr. . 
Houston spoke as if the freedom from pests were 
somehow due to his excellent management. 

Mrs. Houston had been sitting silent, but now 
she came over and sat down by Isabel. “ This is 
the time of day when you think of home, isn’t it? ” 
she said. 

“ I was just beginning to,” Isabel confessed. “ I 
was just thinking about Fanny. Isn’t she a dear? ” 

“She is, indeed; so individual and interesting.” 

“ I tell mother that Fanny is the flower of the 
family.” 

“ Does she believe it? ” 

“Of course she does. Poor mother! It must 
be a relief to have one of her ‘ trials ’ gone. I some- 


46 Isabel Garleton in the West 

times wonder how she stands us — especially when 
we get into some quarrel or fuss.” 

“ I believe I could stand three just like your 
mother’s three.” Mrs. Houston spoke with uncon- 
scious wistfulness. 

“ Meta would be one of them.” 

“ Of course.” 

“Talking about me?” Meta had caught her 
name, though the voices were low. 

“ Yes. Slandering you, you may be sure.” 

“ I don’t know of two people that I’d sooner trust 
to talk about me,” said Meta. “ I’m afraid that 
not everybody is so charitable as you.” 

Isabel knew that Meta’s proud and indifferent air 
had elicited some sharp comments from various col- 
lege girls who judged only superficially. She 
thought with a twinge of conscience that she herself 
had once been uncharitable in her estimate of the 
Western girl whom she had now come to love so 
dearly. “ Well, you must always trust us, and we’ll 
never say anything unkind,” she responded. 

The clatter of pans in the cook-cabin had ceased, 
and the two young men now came out to join their 
friends. Rodney sat down beside Isabel. “ It’s 
good to see you again,” he said heartily. “ It seems 
like a long time since I left Jefferson.” 

“ It’s been interesting, though, hasn’t it? ” the girl 
replied. 

“ I should say so. I’ve grown a lot and learned 
a lot. I don’t know when the same length of time 
has meant so much to me. How were things in 
Jefferson when you left? ” 

“ About the same. Commencement was a little 


Cabins in the Gulch 


47 


duller than usual, I believe. I saw your mother on 
the campus when the Procession was going on, and 
had just a word with her,” Isabel said. “ She was 
wearing a beautiful pongee gown, all Chinese em- 
broidery or something. I couldn’t keep my eyes 
off it.” 

“ Yes, she had that made before I left. Some- 
body sent her the stuff from California. Some gay 
gown, isn’t it? Made her look about sixteen.” 

“ She did look young and pretty. She stopped a 
minute and spoke about you, and said she was glad 
you could do what you wanted to this summer, be- 
cause you always fidgeted so if you didn’t accom- 
plish something worth while.” 

“ I’ve got just what I wanted to do,” Rodney an- 
swered, “ and the place that I wanted to do it in; 
and I’ve got the best company in the world while 
I’m doing it. I can’t see how I could ask for any- 
thing more.” 

Isabel smiled to herself but did not reply. The 
night was darkening; the air was full of the mur- 
murings of wind and stream. The stars grew 
brighter, and the peaks more towering. A deep 
sense of isolation enveloped the little group, as they 
sat there in the valley, overshadowed by the majesty 
of the hills. 


CHAPTER IV 


A CLOSED CANYON 

TSABEL was awakened by a crash of tinware in 
^ Delmonico’s. Glancing over she saw that the cot 
on the other side of the room was empty; Meta had 
dressed and gone. Greatly chagrined at being the 
last to rise, Isabel jumped up and performed a hasty 
toilet. In her serge skirt, middy blouse, and high 
tan shoes, she was ready for almost any domestic 
or mountain adventure. 

As she stepped out of the low door of the cabin, 
she gave a cry of delight at the loveliness of the 
scene. The valley and the peaks seemed to have 
assumed a different character from the one they had 
exhibited on the day before. Isabel was to learn 
that mountains, like bodies of water, are never twice 
the same: they are always changing into new forms 
of beauty, as if they are expressing an infinitely va- 
ried life which underlies them. 

Isabel found Mrs. Houston with a gingham apron 
on over her shirt-waist and short skirt. She was 
just putting the coffee pot on the table, which still 
stood out of doors. 

“ Oh, I’m so ashamed,” said Isabel, “ I meant to 
get up and help with everything.” 

“ It isn’t late,” Mrs. Houston consoled her. 
“ The boys were up early, you know, and out with 
48 


A Closed Canyon 49 

the workmen. They got their breakfast at the mess- 
shack, down below.” 

“ Life is real and earnest for them now, isn’t it? ” 
Isabel answered. “ Dear me I I wonder if one is 
always as hungry as a savage, out here in the moun- 
tains? ” 

“ I suspect so,” said Mrs. Houston. “ I have 
feelings of the same sort, myself. Mr. Houston got 
most of the breakfast. He knocked down our 
whole array of tinware, when he was reaching for 
a frying pan. I suppose you heard the clatter.” 

“ It waked me, or I suppose I’d be sleeping yet. 
Oh, I smell something appetizing! ” 

Meta and her father appeared, one carrying a 
platter of bacon and eggs, and the other a plate of 
hot toast. “ Did the tenderfoot have a good night’s 
rest? ” queried Mr. Houston. 

“ Perfectly splendid, but she’s horrified to be the 
last in such a flock of early birds.” 

“ Well, never mind, you can share the worms,” 
said Meta soothingly. 

“ They’re tempting to look at,” laughed Isabel, 
“ and I know I shall gobble like a young robin.” 

They all sat down, and were soon making short 
work of the plenteous meal. 

“ How stuffy dining-rooms will seem,” said Mrs. 
Houston, dropping two lumps of sugar into her 
coffee. “ Just think of having the whole horizon 
for walls, and such glorious pictures hung all about.” 

“ I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to lure you 
home.” Mr. Houston pretended to be anxious. 
“ We’ll have a dining-room built on the top of the 
house, if that will do any good.” 


50 Isabel Carleton in the West 

“ Perhaps we’d better wait and see how much I 
yearn for walls and ceilings, after I’ve been here a 
while.” Mrs. Houston smiled at her handsome 
husband, across the white oilcloth table-cover. 

“ We have a whole day now to fill in,” said Meta, 
who was of a practical turn of mind. “ I suppose 
we ought to lay out office hours, and recreation 
time.” 

“ That’s what the boys have to do,” said Isabel. 
“ Their time for work is sacred, and mustn’t be 
broken into. Ours ought to be the same, only, thank 
goodness, it doesn’t have to be so long.” 

“I dare say we can all — engineers included — 
have Saturday afternoon off,” suggested Mr. Hous- 
ton. 

“ I believe that’s the rule,” Mrs. Houston replied. 
“ And how about the Fourth of July? That’s com- 
ing pretty soon.” 

“ Everybody ought to get a half-holiday out of 
that.” 

“ Don’t let’s work this very first day,” begged 
Isabel. “ I’m sure I could never concentrate.” 

“ I have to concentrate at once on some letters 
and some accounts,” said Mr. Houston. “ I should 
have brought a stenographer along, as well as a type- 
writer, but unfortunately one is not so portable as 
the other, and you can’t shut a stenographer up and 
shove her under the table as you can a Corona.” 

“ It’s too bad that we women are all so useless 
as office assistants,” Mrs. Houston replied. “ I 
can write on a typewriter, but I can’t take dicta- 
tion,” 


51 


A Closed Canyon 

“ It won’t hurt me to do a little of my own work,” 
sighed her husband. “ I’ve often had to, when I’ve 
been traveling, or out in some lumber camp; but I 
don’t mind admitting that it’s drudgery. However, 
I haven’t much else to do here, and I might as well 
be busy.” 

Isabel and Meta washed the dishes, while Mrs. 
Houston made beds and disposed of various scat- 
tered belongings. She went about driving up nails 
with a firm and skillful hand. 

“ Housekeeping is a fairly simple process out 
here,” she said, coming to stand in the door of the 
Ritz-Carlton, after the girls had finished their tasks 
in the cook-cabin. 

“ So simple that you’ll get to longing for stuffed 
sofas and embroidered doilies and a three-mirrored 
dressing-table,” answered Meta. 

“ Not I. Life has been very complicated for me 
during the last few years. I’m almost willing to 
reduce it, as I think I heard you say, to a teepee and 
a tin pail.” 

“ Luxuries are a burden sometimes,” said Isabel, 
“ but I must confess that I do love them. Tell us 
about your home — or how you lived at your school. 
Did you have a house or a flat, or what? We had 
so many things to talk about when you were in Jef- 
ferson that we never got through half of them.” 
She seated herself on a cot, while Mrs. Houston 
took one of the camp-stools. 

“ I had a suite of my own on the third floor of 
the school — sitting room, bedroom, and dressing 
room,” Mrs. Houston began. “ I furnished them 


52 Isabel Carleton in the West 

carefully, a little at a time, as I had leisure and 
money. I have some lovely English chintzes, for 
instance.” 

“ The kind with pomegranates and long-tailed 
birds? ” Isabel asked eagerly. 

“ Yes, and all sorts of impossible fruits and flow- 
ers; and I have some nice old mahogany — part of 
it we had in the family, and part of it I ‘ picked up ’ 
— and some odd jars and bowls, and a Medici print 
of Lydia Bingham ; you know, that one with the big 
hat, and the yellow tones, so warm and glowing. 
And I always have plenty of flowers in my rooms — 
something that every room needs.” 

“ I love those things,” cried Isabel. As she sat 
in the rough log cabin, she saw visions of old ma- 
hogany and rich-colored chintzes and ancient bowls 
full of blossoms. A secret longing for a home of 
her own possessed her, as it had sometimes done be- 
fore. Then she noticed that Meta was speaking. 

“ I’m learning to like them, too,” Meta was say- 
ing. “ There was a time, not very long ago, when 
they didn’t mean much to me. I couldn’t see why 
a new Morris chair was just as ‘ artistic ’ as some old 
Colonial one with a reed bottom and painted flowers 
on the back.” 

“ It might possibly be,” said Mrs. Houston; 
“ but the old things were made in a different spirit 
from the modern stuff that is turned out wholesale 
nowadays. Then each article had its own individ- 
uality.” 

“ Won’t it be fun to have a home of your own, 
for all three of you? ” said Isabel. “ Do you think 
you’ll have it right away? ” 


53 


A Closed Canyon 

“ As soon as we can decide what we want,” an- 
swered Mrs. Houston, looking at Meta; “that is, 
whether we’ll take a house or only an apartment.” 

“Which do you want?” asked Meta. Isabel 
marveled to see her so deferential to another per- 
son’s desires. 

Mrs. Houston hesitated. “ It’s hard to run a 
house and a school, too,” she said thoughtfully; 
“ but your father wants a house, I believe.” 

“ And you want the school. I think,” said Meta 
decisively, “ that a woman should be able to go on 
with her work even if she is married.” 

“ Your father isn’t converted to that opinion yet, 
but perhaps he will be.” Mrs. Houston spoke with 
a hopeful smile. 

“ I should like to hear about your school — 
how you happened to have it, and all that, if it isn’t 
impertinent to ask,” ventured Isabel. 

“ Some years ago,” Mrs. Houston said simply, 
“ I was to have been married. My fiance went to 
Alaska on business. His ship was wrecked on the 
coast, and he was drowned.” Isabel caught her 
breath. Meta stared tensely at her stepmother, 
without speaking. “ After that, my mother died,” 
Mrs. Houston went on. “ I visited some friends 
in Seattle, and got interested in their little school. 
They were giving it up, and I took it over, and went 
on and developed it. It’s three or four times as 
large as it was. At first, it was merely something 
for me to think about; but I got so that it meant a 
great deal more.” 

“ It must have seemed like a child growing up,” 
said Isabel. 


54 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


“ Yes, it was like that. I took pride in keeping 
my standards high; and I loved the girls, and wanted 
them to have a natural home life, not just a re- 
pressed school existence.” 

“ I wish I had had such a school to go to,” Meta 
burst out. “ Father didn’t seem to realize ” 

“ Men don’t always,” interrupted Mrs. Houston 
gently. “ We mustn’t blame him. A number of 
my girls are without real homes. Their mothers 
are dead, or living abroad, or married to second 
husbands who object to children. I try to make it 
up to those girls in as many ways as I can.” 

I am sure you do,” Isabel said, with affectionate 
earnestness. 

“ Nothing quite makes up for an individual 
mother — one’s own private property,” said Meta 
in a low voice. 

“ That’s true,” Mrs. Houston answered; and then 
she added after a pause, “ Sometimes I feel as if I 
ought to give up all my time to making a home. 
But you will be in college another year, and then 
perhaps busy with your own work, and your father 
is away so much — ” 

“ A while ago,” said Meta slowly, “ I should have 
thought you ought to do that, too ; but I do so want 
you free to carry on your work. Isn’t it fine that 
you and I have the same ideas about such things? ” 
Her eyes glowed with generous pleasure. 

“ It certainly is.” Mrs. Houghton took the hand 
of her step-daughter. “ We are both interested in 
the progress of women. I feel that the time will 
come when all women who are not actually occupied 
with their own little children will be self-supporting. 


55 


A Closed Canyon 

no matter how much money they can have from 
some one else. They will insist on giving some- 
thing to the world in return for life and happiness.” 

Isabel always felt a wider sense of living when 
she was with Mrs. Houston. Her own little prob- 
lems shrank in importance, and the world seemed 
larger and more worth while. That was one nice 
thing about Meta, too, Isabel meditated; she was 
interested in women’s work for one another, and in 
world affairs, and other things than her own clothes 
and good times. 

She thought about these matters later, as she 
strolled down to the curve in the cliff, to get a glimpse 
of the work-camp. Standing in the sunshine, she 
noted carefully the rough board sleeping quarters, 
the cook-shack, and the tool sheds. Still farther 
down the bank, she could see the spot which the 
young engineers had selected for their weir; George 
and Rodney and the workmen were grouped about it. 

She turned back and investigated again the in- 
genious cellarette which had been built above the 
spring, and through which the water flowed. As 
she passed the Waldorf, on her way back, she saw 
Mr. Houston sitting in front of the door, with his 
typewriter before him on a packing-box. His hat 
was on the back of his head, and he was intent on 
the keys before him, pounding out rather laboriously 
the letters which he was used to dictating to a stenog- 
rapher. “ The village ” had settled down to quiet, 
and each person was occupied with a self-appointed 
task. 

While Mrs. Houston and Isabel prepared the 
simple luncheon, they talked about taking a walk 


56 Isabel Carleton in the West 

up the canyon; and after the meal was over, they 
set out on what was to be, though they did not sus- 
pect it, a real adventure. 

“ We’ll give you another chance to go with us,” 
said Isabel to Meta. “ Are you sure you don’t want 
to go along? ” Meta had exhibited small interest 
in the expedition. 

“ No, thank you. I think I’ll stay here. Father 
wants to sleep, and I’ll stay and see that he isn’t car- 
ried off in his slumbers. And as a matter of fact, 
I must write a letter or two that I’ve neglected till 
I’m ashamed of myself.” 

“ Well, we’ll try to assuage our grief,” Isabel re- 
plied. 

She and Mrs. Houston started off up the can- 
yon, sauntering along, and enjoying the air and sun- 
light. There was something to interest them at 
every step. Their most frequent exclamation was 
for the forget-me-nots which almost completely 
covered the dry and pebbly mountain side. Thick 
clumps of green leaves held great sprays of the blue 
flowers; not the tiny garden kind, but large perfect 
blossoms with delicate blue petals and yellow cen- 
ters. 

“ I’ve already found out that Montana is a land 
of flowers,” said Mrs. Houston. “ I used to think 
it a kind of sage-brush desert.” She bent over a 
flat tuft of forget-me-nots, and fingered the alluring 
blooms. “ But it doesn’t pay to pick them, does 
it?” 

“ No. I often feel like that about flowers,” Isa- 
bel responded. “ They seem to be lovelier in their 
own place.” 


57 


A Closed Canyon 

The two companions walked along the rudely 
built road, until they came to the spot where a 
smaller canyon entered at right angles the wider and 
more sloping valley through which the stream and 
the road made their way. 

“ I wonder whether we ought to venture in here,” 
said Mrs. Houston. 

“ It’s very seductive,” answered Isabel. 

It was in shadow, even in the bright afternoon. 
The walls showed layers of soft brown and tan and 
dull orange and brick red. A trickling rivulet 
flowed through the sand at the bottom of the gulch, 
fed by water-drops which sparkled down the rocky 
sides. A few scraggy pines were outlined, high 
above, against the sky. 

“ I can’t resist,” Mrs. Houston said boldly. “ I 
don’t think there can be anything in here that would 
hurt us.” 

“ Nor I,” said Isabel. “ And we can’t get lost, 
because we can’t get out, and when we turn around 
we can’t go anywhere but back to the main val- 
ley.” 

“ Let’s call it Magpie Gulch,” suggested Mrs. 
Houston as they walked along. “ There are scores 
of magpies up there among the trees.” 

“ I didn’t know what they were.” Isabel 
watched the big birds wheeling about, and caught 
glimpses of the white feathers under their wings. 
She was so absorbed that she did not notice that 
she was nearing the end of the canyon. 

“ It’s a cul de sac/^ cried Mrs. Houston. “ And 
look, there’s a kind of natural bench there against 
the wall. Let’s sit down and rest.” They had 


58 Isabel Carleton in the West 

really come a considerable distance, though they had 
taken small account of it. 

They sat down in the shadowy nook, and looked 
away down the gulch, where the colored walls were 
a constant source of pleasure to the eye. Neither 
had much to say, and they gave themselves up to the 
peace and remoteness of the place. 

All at once, Isabel spoke. “ I hear something,” 
she said. 

“ What sort of thing? ” asked Mrs. Houston 
rather absently. 

“ Footsteps. Didn’t you hear them? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Listen.” 

They sat perfectly still. Only faint sounds came 
to their ears, the whirring of the magpies, the tinkle 
of an infinitesimal waterfall. Then a stone rolled. 
Isabel’s heart gave a jump. 

“ Mm-m,” said Mrs. Houston, easily; “ some- 
times a stone gets loosened as the sand dries under 
it, or a bird or a lizard pushes against it.” 

There was another rattle of stones. “ Some 
one’s coming,” Isabel insisted. They could see far 
down the canyon, but a bend prevented their dis- 
cerning the open end at which they had entered. 

“ Perhaps Mr. Houston and Meta decided to 
come, too.” 

“ But they wouldn’t know just where we had 
gone,” pondered Isabel. 

“ They might guess.” 

The two women sat breathless, neither confessing 
a fear which was gripping them. They were both 
so new to these mountain ravines that they would 


A Closed Canyon 59 

not have been surprised to see anything emerge from 
the shadows. 

“Oh-hl” Isabel seized Mrs. Houston’s hand. 
A dark form had appeared down the canyon, crawl- 
ing out from an overhanging rock. “ It’s a — ” 
Words failed. 

“ A bear.” Mrs. Houston was trying to speak 
calmly, as became a chaperon of girls. 

The bear threw his head from side to side, and 
then began padding up the gulch toward the in- 
truders. 

“ Isn’t there any way of getting out?” Isabel’s 
voice stuck in her throat. 

They looked wildly around. The walls of the 
canyon rose straight and slippery and impassable. 
“ We can’t climb,” said Mrs. Houston. “ There’s 
nothing to take hold of.” 

“ What are we going to do? ” Isabel was cling- 
ing desperately to the older woman. 

“ I don’t know. There will be something.” 
Mrs. Houston watched the beast as he came calmly 
on. 

“ Is — is it a big one? ” Isabel queried piteously. 
It seemed as if she had lost all sense of proportion. 

“ I don’t think it’s a — grizzly.” 

Isabel’s heart fluttered at the terrible word. She 
had not thought of grizzlies. A bear was just a 
bear to her, and a dreadful creature at that. She 
saw that the beast was swaying nonchalantly as he 
proceeded to skirt the tiny stream in the middle of 
the gulch. Then he stopped and raised his nose 
and sniffed. 

“ Could we get past? ” Isabel questioned suddenly. 


6o 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


“ Not there. He’s In the narrowest part of the 
ravine.” 

The blood was hammering in Isabel’s ears. The 
sound of crunching pebbles was like the roar of 
waters. Her lips were saying over and over, 

What shall we dof^\ 

Now the bear began to concentrate more defi- 
nitely on the human Invaders of his repose. He 
moved his head uneasily, and lurched along with a 
curious and uncouth grace. 

Cold, spell-bound, the two women watched him. 
“Oh, Mrs. Houston, can’t we climb somewhere? 
Can’t we get away? ” Isabel wailed. 

“ I don’t see how.” Mrs. Houston’s voice was 
expressionless. 

“ Isn’t there anything we can hide behind? ” 

“ Not a thing. If we get into one of those crev- 
ices, we shall be worse off than ever.” 

The bear broke into a trot, and came forward 
over the sloping floor of the canyon. Small pine 
branches from the trees above crackled under his 
feet. Isabel saw that he was brown, with a thick, 
almost woolly hide. 

“ No, It’s not a grizzly,” murmured Mrs. Hous- 
ton, as if that fact were of Immense comfort. Isa- 
bel felt a grim sense of amusement at the words. 

The bear stopped and rose on his haunches to 
survey the two shrinking forms at the end of the 
cul de sac. “ We should have got up,” breathed 
Isabel. “ We don’t dare move now.” She stared 
with fascinated eyes at the beast. He was fat and 
well-fed. His beady eyes glittered, and his nails 
gleamed even In the shade. 


6i 


A Closed Canyon 

“ Isabel,” said Mrs. Houston, just above her 
breath, as if she feared the bear might understand, 
“ I think there’s only one thing to do. If we sit 
here, we shall go mad. When he gets closer, let’s 
dash out, one on each side of him. He can’t get 
us both at once.” 

“ Oh, I can’t! ” Isabel shrank against her com- 
panion. 

“ But we can’t sit here and let him come right up 
to us.” 

“ He may turn back.” 

“ It doesn’t look like it,” Mrs. Houston an- 
swered. “ We’ve got to make a dash for it.” 

“ He may run after us,” said Isabel tremulously. 

“ Of course he may. But, Isabel, we’ve got to 
do something.” 

The bear now came quietly forward to within 
twenty feet of them. They could see his cruel little 
eyes bent upon them, and his wet black nose wrin- 
kling as he sniffed. 

“ Isabel, we must run,” said Mrs. Houston 
firmly. “ You go on that side, and I’ll go on this.” 

“ We-ell.” To Isabel, her body felt like a lump 
of lead. 

“ I’ll count. When I say three, we run. Look 
where you’re going to run, and then go. Pay no 
attention to me.” 

“Oh!” 

“ One.” 

Isabel drew a long breath. Her mind grew sud- 
denly clear. She noticed a bald spot on the top of 
the bear’s head, and thought that it made him look 
like a grotesque old man. 


62 Isabel Carleton in the West 

“ Two.” The women clenched their hands. 
The bear made a motion toward them, and sat up 
as if he expected to be spoken to or caressed. 

Three! ” 

With a leap, Isabel and Mrs. Houston were on 
their feet, rushing toward the astonished animal. 
He wavered, and threw out a hasty paw. Isabel 
was conscious of flashing nails and pointed ears as 
she flew by. On she sped among the rattling peb- 
bles and crunching twigs. Throwing a glance side- 
wise, she saw Mrs. Houston running on the other 
side of the tiny stream. Then she looked back. 
The bear had got down on all fours, and was loping 
down the canyon. “ How easily he does it,” thought 
the girl. “ We can’t keep this up.” 

“ Don’t try to run too fast,” called Mrs. Hous- 
ton. She was panting, for she was less used to 
exertion than Isabel, who was accustomed to gym- 
nastic drill and dancing. “ And we must stay far 
apart,” she added. 

Isabel looked back again. The bear was placidly 
trotting along, not as if he were pursuing them, but 
more as if he were following them like a dog. “ A 
queer sort of bear,” Isabel thought; but her experi- 
ence with bears had been limited. 

When next they looked back, the bear had 
stopped. “ I must get my breath,” said Mrs. Hous- 
ton. She sat on a stone, breathing hard. Isabel 
stood trembling. For a long minute they rested. 
Then the bear began trotting toward them again. 
Thus they went on, running and stopping. The 
beast seemed uncertain as to whether they were 
worth following or not. With pounding hearts and 


A Closed Canyon 


63 

shaking limbs, they accommodated their speed to his. 

At last, after endless ages, the opening of the 
canyon appeared. Making a final spurt, the two 
women dashed out into the valley, and clutched each 
other hysterically. Isabel was weak and unsteady; 
Mrs. Houston, pale and wearied out, sat down and 
leaned against a bowlder. Neither of them said a 
word. 

Isabel could see into the canyon. A chill came 
over her, as she saw the dark head of the brute 
appear around the curve. He stood looking for 
a moment, and then, as if bored by the game, he 
turned back and was lost to view. 

“Oh, he’s gone, he’s gone!” Isabel gasped. 
“ He isn’t coming out.” 

“Are you sure?” Mrs. Houston sat up, alert 
and vivified. 

“ We’ll wait and see.” 

After some minutes of recuperation, during which 
no pursuing bear appeared, they started back to the 
camp, walking slowly, with many glances over their 
shoulders. They saw only the sunshine pouring 
down the valley, and the yellow glints on the ripples 
of the stream. 

“ How brave you were 1 ” cried Isabel. 

“ We had to do something.” Mrs. Houston 
smiled wanly. 

“ I should have sat right there till he crunched 
my feet off,” quavered Isabel. “ I couldn’t have 
run right toward him, if you hadn’t forced me to.” 
She still had tight hold of Mrs. Houston’s arm. 

“ Shall we tell them at camp that we had an ad- 
venture? ” asked Mrs. Houston. 


64 Isabel Carleton in the West 

“ It would frighten them, wouldn’t it? ” 

“ I suppose so.” 

“ Then let’s not say anything at first. We’ll 
break it to them ‘ aisy like,’ and not shock them 
too much.” 

“ We’ll have to change the name of that can- 
yon,” suggested Mrs. Houston, laughing nervously. 
“ It will have to be Bruin’s Bower, or Grizzly Gulch, 
instead of Magpie Gulch, you know.” 

“ But you said it wasn’t a grizzly,” Isabel replied. 

“ No, it wasn’t. But we had a grisly time of it, 
didn’t we? ” 

“ We surely did. I don’t want a grislier one. 
We ought to thank heaven that we’re alive.” 

“ I do. And oh, Isabel, your hair is all falling 
down. I never noticed it.” 

“ So is yours. You look like a wild lady from 
Borneo.” Isabel stood still in the road and laughed. 
‘‘ If we went to camp like this, it would be the worst 
kind of a give-away.” 

Merry with their relief, they rearranged their 
hair, and strolled calmly into camp. They were 
welcomed by a whoo-hoo, from Mr. Houston, who 
was standing in the door of the Waldorf. 

“ The adventurous tenderfeet now approach,” 
he said quizzically. “ Did you have a good ‘ voy- 
age’?” 

“ Fine,” responded his wife. “ We discovered 
a gulch.” 

“Did you? What was in it? ” 

“Oh,” her voice wavered — “stones and sticks 
and a river as big as the flow from a faucet.” 

Mr. Houston gave the two wayfarers a keen 


A Closed Canyon 65 

glance. “ Was that all? ” he asked, with his hands 
in his pockets. 

“ Oh, all of any importance, wasn’t it, Isabel? ” 
Mrs. Houston’s lips twitched. 

“ I didn’t see much of anything else,” faltered 
Isabel. Her adventure was too vivid in her mind 
to be regarded entirely as a joke. 

Mr. Houston took his hands out of his pockets. 

“See here. What was in that gulch?” he de- 
manded. Meta had come out of the Ritz and now 
stood listening. 

“What makes you think there was anything?” 
Mrs. Houston teased him. 

“ I see it in your faces.” 

“We must be (bear) -faced minxes,” mur- 
mured Isabel, giggling at Meta’s look of alarm. 

“Was it a bear?” Mr. Houston’s voice was 
stern, like that of a schoolmaster who compels guilty 
youngsters to confess. 

“ A sort of one. Well, yes, I suppose one may 
sav it was a bear. But wasn’t that a nice agreeable 
place for him? ” said Mrs. Houston innocently. 

Mr. Houston frowned. 

Meta looked horrified. “ Did you get away 
from him? ” she burst out. 

“ Oh, no. We’re there yet, patting him on the 
back.” Isabel was amiably sardonic, in her attempt 
to keep her voice from shaking. 

“ I mean, how did you get away from him? ” 

“ Mr. Bear was so fascinated by us that he didn’t 
know which one to choose,” Mrs. Houston answered 
blithely. “ He’s still thinking it over, and I dare 
say he’ll make a report.” 


66 Isabel Carleton in the West 

“ If I had been the bear, I couldn’t have chosen, 
either.” Mr. Houston’s serious face belied his 
jesting words. “ Did he try to attack you ? ” 

“ We didn’t give him a chance,” Mrs. Houston 
explained. “ We made a dash, one on each side 
of him, and ran for our lives.” 

“ But a bear can run faster than a person,” pro- 
tested the inquisitor. “ You must have dashed like 
the wind.” 

“ We did,” asserted Isabel, her chin quivering. 
“ The North Coast Limited wasn’t in it with us.” 

Reluctantly, in answer to questions, the returned 
fugitives recounted their adventure. Half laugh- 
ing, but with tears in their eyes, they told of their 
terror and their flight. 

“ I want to inquire,” said Mrs. Houston at last, 
“ do these mountains swarm with bears? ” 

“ No. One is very rarely seen around here,” 
Mr. Houston returned. “ I asked Sammis about 
that a while ago. This one must have strayed down 
here from some of the remoter mountains. I doubt 
if there are any more within fifty miles.” 

“ One is enough,” sighed Isabel. 

“ Now, you two had better go and lie down,” 
urged Mr. Houston. “Alice, you look completely 
worn out. I’m terribly distressed at your being so 
frightened. I wouldn’t have had it happen for the 
world.” He was still frowning and miserable. 

“ I’ll repair the ravages of the experience,” said 
Mrs. Houston, feeling of her hair, “ and I’ll sit 
down for a while; but I’m perfectly all right, Gil- 
bert, and you needn’t worry an instant about me.” 

After they had freshened their costumes, and 


A Closed Canyon 67 

rested for a short time, Isabel and Mrs. Houston 
were quite themselves; though they declined to talk 
any more about the occurrences of the afternoon. 
Mrs. Houston had planned the dinner before they 
went, and she now prepared it, while Mr. Houston 
insisted on helping as much as his masculine igno- 
rance permitted. 

Presently the young engineers came home, ex- 
hilarated with their day’s work. 

“ I’m as hungry as a bear,” cried George, his face 
glowing with its recent washing in cold water. 

“ Don’t mention that word here,” said Isabel with 
an involuntary shudder. 

“ Why not? I suppose the lily-fingered ones ob- 
ject to such rude language from horny-handed 
toilers.” 

“ Yes, that’s it,” Isabel agreed. “ Our sensitive 
souls can’t stand anything but the most poetic 
phrases.” 

“ Sorry, but I can’t be very poetic till I’ve con- 
sumed a cubic foot or so of beef and potatoes,” 
growled George. “ Then perhaps I can talk about 
the star-rs and the r-rippling str-reams, and the up- 
lifting of the masses. Just now I’m a wild animal 
on the track of a square meal.” 

“ Ugh ! Don’t gobble me. Come and sit down 
and eat what’s on the table.” Isabel hurried the 
party into their seats. 

“Well, how did you get on to-day?” inquired 
Mr. Houston of the laborers. He had been ad- 
jured not to mention bears at the table. 

“ Finely,” answered Rodney, his eyes glowing 
with satisfaction. “ I’ve talked more with my hands 


68 Isabel Carleton in the West 

to-day than I’ve ever talked in a week with my 
tongue. We. think things are going pretty well.” 

The conversation became general, and Isabel was 
relieved not to have to rehearse her experiences. 

After dinner, Isabel and Meta washed the dishes. 
When they came out to join the group in front of 
the village, Rodney came over to Isabel and said 
fiercely, in a low voice, “ What’s this about you and 
a bear? ” 

“ Who told you? ” parried the girl. 

“ Mr. Houston whispered something to George, 
and he hinted it to me.” 

“ Oh, well, if you want fo believe such gossip — ” 
Isabel began. 

” Come, now, Isabel,” pleaded Rodney, “ don’t be 
flippant. Were you scared? Were you in danger? 
Did you get hurt? ” 

“ I was a little scared, but I don’t know that I was 
really in danger, and I certainly didn’t get hurt. 
Please, I can’t talk about it now. Rod. I’ve stood 
all I can.” 

“ All right, if that’s the way you feel. But I’m 
horribly sorry you had such an unpleasant experi- 
ence, and in the very first part of your stay here, 
too.” He looked worried, and spoke as contritely 
as if he were to blame for the entire episode. 

” Dear me, I shouldn’t want to come away out 
here into the mountains and not have any hair- 
breadth escapes at all. One might as well stay at 
home, if one isn’t going to have any thrills,” said 
Isabel. ” There’s no use in fussing.” And then to 
change the subject, she began talking about the other 
side of the stream. “ Beyond the Alps lies Italy. 


A Closed Canyon 69 

It’s too bad that we can’t get across the river here. 
That’s the most delightful looking meadow on the 
other side, and there’s hardly any grass on this side 
at all, — I mean, really fresh green grass.” 

“ The grass always looks greener when it’s a long 
way off,” commented Rodney wisely. 

“ But that grass is,” persi*sted Isabel. 

“We could have a bridge, I suppose. Hey, 
George, what do you say? Shall we build a narrow 
foot-bridge here for our lady friends to trip across 
without wetting their dainty feet? ” 

“ That’s a good idea,” answered George, who 
was lying at ease with his hands under his head. 
“ We’ll do it in our first spare minute.” 

“ It will be glorious to enter the Promised Land. 
We can have picnics over there,” Isabel remarked. 

“ But it’s no picnic to get there, if you have to 
build your bridge first,” responded Rodney frivo- 
lously. 

“ I don’t see how we can expect the waters to 
open and let us through,” Isabel replied. 

“ They surely won’t if you don’t expect them to.” 

“ If you boys build a bridge, that will be almost 
as much of a miracle,” was the answer. “ It re- 
quires all my faith to get that far.” 

“You’ll see what we’ll do,” said Rodney; “but 
we look to you for encouragement instead of jibes.” 

“ You’ll always get encouragement from me,” 
said Isabel soberly. 

“ I’ll count on it,” said Rodney. 


CHAPTER V 


THE BIG INDIAN 

/^N Thursday morning, Mr. Sammis arrived with 
supplies, and with a bunch of letters and papers 
for the camp. 

Isabel took her letters eagerly, and stared at the 
addresses and postmarks with foolish delight. “ It 
seems as if we’d been wafted to another planet; 
things are so different and so absorbing,” she said. 
“ I feel just as I used to in Europe — only some- 
times when we were moving around, it would be 
days before we’d get any mail at all. That was 
rather dreadful.” 

“ I should say so,” answered Meta absently. She 
was tearing open an envelope. Mr. Houston had 
thrust his letters carelessly into his coat pocket, and 
was talking with Mr. Sammis. Mrs. Houston was 
reading a postal card, and giving a divided attention, 
to what the two men were saying. 

Isabel ran hastily through a letter from her 
mother; they were all well at home, and still in 
Jefferson because of the summer session; the weather 
was warm; Fanny had a new muslin dress which she 
very much needed; strawberries were terribly high, 
and strawberry jam would be scarce next winter in 
the Carleton larder; Mrs. Mitchell had invited a 
few people in for Saturday afternoon; and so on. 

70 


The Big Indian 


71 


The lines brought up in Isabel’s mind the picture 
of summer days in Jefferson: the heated air quiver- 
ing in open spaces at noon-day; the shaded residence 
streets, with damp green lawns; whirring electric 
fans; porch parties; thin, delicately colored dresses; 
fingers busy with embroidery or knitting; cool drinks 
with ice tinkling against the glasses. It was all so 
familiar and so attractive that Isabel had a momen- 
tary twinge of loss. “ I do think it’s a lovely home 
life,” she sighed; “but I’m glad I’m seeing a dif- 
ferent kind of existence, just the same.” 

She was stifling the twinge at her heart, when she 
heard Mr. Houston say, “ Well, people, Mr. Sam- 
mis says he has time to go up to the Big Indian mine 
this forenoon, and I think it would be a fine thing 
for our tenderfoot friends to see it. Do you want 
to go — Alice, and Isabel? ” 

“ I’d be overjoyed,” said Mrs. Houston quickly. 

“ And I, too,” echoed Isabel. “ You know I love 
to see everything.” 

“ Meta and I will go on horseback,” said Mr. 
Houston. “ You two can ride with Mr. Sammis 
in the buckboard. Come on. How long will it take 
you to powder your noses? ” 

“ As long as it takes you two men to get the par- 
cels out of the buckboard,” answered Mrs. Hous- 
ton. 

In a few minutes the cavalcade had started. Meta 
rode ahead, holding herself gracefully erect. For 
some distance, while the road was wide enough, Mr. 
Houston rode beside the buckboard, in which Mrs. 
Houston and Isabel sat. 

“ There’s something wonderfully exhilarating 


72 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


about a morning in the mountains,” Mrs. Houston 
remarked. “ You feel a sort of exultation in every 
smallest thing.” 

“ And there’s such a gold light over the world,” 
said Isabel. 

“ The State seal has for its motto Oro y plata/^ 
said Mr. Houston. “ That’s Spanish for gold and 
silver , you know.” 

“ I’ve heard of that,” Mrs. Houston answered. 
“ I like to think that it means more than merely 
metals and riches. The people out here seem to 
be what one calls sterling — that’s the silver; and 
they have a true cordiality and sincerity, which is 
gold.” 

“ That makes the motto seem more significant,” 
Isabel assented; “ but I like it anyhow. It suggests 
the romantic explorers, and the adventurers who 
came in the gold rush, and the picturesque characters 
of the mining camps. And wouldn’t it be exciting,” 
she went on, “ to have a glimpse of the early days 
— the great fortunes made in no time, the gambling, 
and the wild acts of the desperadoes — ” 

“ It would be rather more than you could stand 
to see the last acts of some of those dramas,” Mrs. 
Houston put in with a meaning look. “ You’d find 
them too much for your nerves, my dear.” 

“ But some people saw them,” argued Mr. Hous- 
ton, bringing his horse closer alongside the buck- 
board. 

“ I don’t know how they stood it,” his wife re- 
plied. “ They must have had stronger souls than 
we have nowadays.” 


73 


The Big Indian 

“ Possibly they did. But look at what is going 
on in Europe. How do people stand those things 
without going mad? ” 

“ Some of them do go mad, I expect.” 

“ Yes. But many of them endure.” 

“ I suppose we can all stand a good deal more 
than we think we can,” admitted Mrs. Houston; 
“ and the pioneers would think us unnecessarily sen- 
timental and squeamish. I’m sure.” 

“ I sometimes wish I could get into that mHee 
in Europe,” Mr. Houston said thoughtfully. “ The 
United States will have to get into it pretty soon; 
but I dare say they’d tell me I was too old.” 

“ That makes it easier for me to think I could 
be a Spartan wife, and let you go.” Mrs. Houston 
smiled sadly at her husband. “ But I can’t help 
thinking of the women in Europe — ” 

“ One can’t think of them.” Mr. Houston tight- 
ened his clutch on the reins, and his face darkened. 
“ Thinking is what makes one go mad.” The road 
grew narrow, and he urged his horse ahead so that 
he might ride with Meta. 

Mrs. Houston and Isabel looked at each other 
understandingly as they approached the mouth of the 
canyon where they had had their adventure of the 
day before. “ Grizzly Gulch,” said Mrs. Houston 
in a low voice. 

“ Hair-breadth escape of two hare-brained ten- 
derfeet,” murmured Isabel. They both shuddered. 
The encounter with the bear had been in reality very 
terrifying. 

“ Our friend Bruin appears to be in hiding.” 


74 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


They looked up the gulch. It was shadowed and 
peaceful. A few magpies were wheeling about, 
“ showing the white feather,” as Isabel had said. 

For some miles the party climbed the gradual 
ascent of the mountain road, and then they turned 
off into a valley, heavily wooded with pine. Beyond 
were vistas of receding blue peaks, growing ever 
paler and more mystic as they faded into the west. 

“ Every bit of this country seems more lovely 
than the last,” exclaimed Isabel. 

“ Don’t those distances make your heart leap up,” 
cried Mrs. Houston, “ as Wordsworth’s did when 
he saw the rainbow? ” 

So be it when I shall grow old 
Or let me die ! ” 

Isabel was quoting a poem which she loved. 

As they drew near to the mining location, they 
saw huge dump piles, the buildings which housed 
the machinery, the neatly painted offices, and long 
rough boarding houses for the men. Here and 
there on the hillside were the small homes of the 
foremen, and others who had families with them. 

Mr. Houston and Meta drew up their horses 
before the door of the office; and a short, gray-haired 
man came out and shook hands. “ Yes, yes, look 
around and see everything,” he was saying cordially, 
as the buckboard drove up. 

After introductions and a few pleasant comments 
on weather and scene, the manager returned to his 
office and summoned a lean, tanned person to show 
the party about. The speech of this man was as 
limited as possible, but his eyes greedily took in 


The Big Indian 75 

every detail of dress and manner as the group dis- 
mounted from horse or buckboard. 

“ D’you want to go underground?” he asked, 
with his gaze fixed on the band of Meta’s hat. 

“ I don’t believe the ladies care to,” said Mr. 
Houston dubiously. 

“ Hardly! ” Isabel stepped back in alarm. 

“ Oh, no I ” Mrs. Houston looked disturbed. 

“ I’d just as lief,” said Meta, with a cool, de- 
tached air; “but of course I’ve been in mines be- 
fore.” 

“ The tenderfeet will keep their tender feet on 
terra firma^" Isabel protested. 

“ Very well.” Mr. Houston looked rather re- 
lieved. “ I didn’t think you’d really care to go 
down. It’s a gloomy business, and there’s not much 
to see, anyhow; only it makes a good story when 
you tell about it.” 

“ We’ll find some other tale to entertain our 
friends with,” said Mrs. Houston. 

The lean man showed them the “ cage,” which 
was to take the men down underground; and a chart 
of the mine, where depths and chambers were in- 
dicated. “ That serves almost as well as the descent 
into Avernus,” commented Isabel. 

“ You’ll want to see the stamp-mill, anyway,” said 
their escort, minutely examining Mrs. Houston’s 
blue neck-ribbon. 

“ Oh, yes, of course. I don’t know what it is, 
but I don’t really suppose it’s where they make 
stamps.” 

“ It’s where they stamp the ore into powder, so 
that the silver can be washed out,” Mr. Houston 


76 Isabel Carleton in the West 

explained. “ You’d better say all you can think of, 
before you go inside, for there won’t be much chance 
when you’re there.” 

As they went into the building, the noise of heavy 
pounding became apparent. When they had en- 
tered the inner room and the doors had been shut, 
the din became terrific. Heavy steel rods worked 
up and down incessantly, crushing the bits of ore 
into powder; and a constant stream of water swept 
beneath the rods, carrying away the mud through 
channels where it was gradually sifted till nothing 
but the ore was left. The noise was more than 
deafening. It was so overwhelming that one was 
scarcely conscious of it as noise, but more as some 
power which paralyzed one’s speech and hearing. 
If a bystander put his lips to another person’s ear 
and shouted, the resulting vibration was like a whis- 
per. 

After one attempt to say something to Meta, Isa- 
bel stood with her hands over her ears, gazing at 
the relentless motion of the rods. It was not long 
till all of the party were ready to make a dash to 
the outer air. When they had receded from the 
building, and relaxed from the strain of the uproar 
in which they had been immersed, they drew long 
sighs of relief. 

“ How any human being can stay in a place like 
that is beyond me,” said Meta. “ It seems wicked 
to ask anybody to.” 

“ Perhaps they get used to it,” returned Isabel 
vaguely. She was still dazed and palpitating. 
Then, as her eyes wandered over the immediate 
scene, she gave a shriek, and clutched at the nearest 


77 


The Big Indian 

sleeve, which happened to be that of the lean fore- 
man. “Oh, what’s that?” she cried. A shaggy 
creature was nosing at a dump not far away. 

“ Nothing but a bear,” answered the foreman, 
enjoying the horrified looks of the ladies. 

“Oh, dear!” Isabel quavered. “Why is he 
here? Let’s run. I can’t bear to see another 
bear.” She began laughing hysterically at her un- 
intended pun. 

Mrs. Houston was holding to her husband’s arm. 
“ Is it a pet? ” asked Mr. Houston calmly. 

“ Well, I don’t know as you’d call him that,” 
drawled the foreman. “ Most of these camps have 
visiting bears — not exactly the lap-dog kind, you 
know; but they hang around and eat up the garbage. 
They’re not fierce, but we don’t stir ’em up any more 
than we can help. This one’s been here ever since 
he was a cub. His name used to be Fritz, but now 
it’s Jof-fer,” he announced in conclusion. 

The bear turned and came toward the group, but 
stopped and sniffed at the ground. Isabel shrank 
and cried out as he came near. He passed with an 
indifferent glance at the interlopers. There was a 
bald spot on the side of his head, near the ear. 

“ Oh I ” Mrs. Houston and Isabel gave a united 
cry of recognition. 

“ What is it? ” asked Meta. 

“ He’s bald, see! It’s the same bear we saw in 
the gulch yesterday, that frightened us so terribly.” 

The foreman laughed when he heard the story. 
“ Somebody threw some hot water on him once, by 
mistake. That’s why his head looks so queer. 
Yes, he wanders down the valley, and goes into that 


78 Isabel Carleton in the West 

canyon. He has a nest in a cave there, where he 
sleeps in winter. He wouldn’t really have done you 
any harm. He just wanted to know who you were.” 

“ We should have had calling cards with us,” Isa- 
bel remarked. 

“ He may be all right, but I should be just as ter- 
rified again, if I should meet him,” said Mrs. Hous- 
ton nervously. 

“ I, too, I don’t like bears. I hate ’em,” cried 
Isabel in an irritated tone. 

“ Oh, now, bears aren’t bad. They’re quite 
pleasant animals, in fact,” parried the foreman. 
“ Though I must say, I do tell my children to keep 
strictly away from Jof-fer.” 

“ I hope he will stay away from our camp,” said 
Mr. Houston, frowning. “ He makes our ladies 
nervous.” 

“ He won’t go that far down the valley,” the fore- 
man reassured them. “ He never goes beyond his 
own canyon.” 

“ I don’t see what they have the brute around 
for,” Mr. Houston muttered. “ They’d do better 
to put him out of the way.” 

“ I think so, too,” Isabel echoed. 

Joffre was now out of sight behind the slag-piles. 
The party went on, and inspected the assay-office, 
where the ore was examined and recorded; the com- 
pany store; the cook-shack, where a white-clad 
Chinaman was putting potatoes on to boil in a huge 
caldron; and the long rude dining-room, with its 
rough board tables and benches. 

“ You’ll stay and have dinner,” said the foreman, 
whose name was Mr. Hurd. “ The cook’ll fix you 


The Big Indian 79 

up a corner in the dining-room, and there’s always 
a lot to eat, such as it is.” 

“ Thank you, we’d be delighted,” said Mr. Hous- 
ton, looking at his watch. “ It would be pretty late 
for lunch if we started home now.” 

The foreman left them, and they went out and 
sat in the shade of the office, where they could look 
off across the narrow valley to the green forests and 
rough granite cliffs. While they were sitting there, 
two children, a boy and a girl, about seven and nine 
years old, came shyly toward them from one of the 
houses on the hillside. 

Mrs. Houston beckoned to them cordially. 
“ Come on,” she called. “ Do come and see us a 
minute.” Her happy face showed her love for 
children. 

The two youngsters sidled up hesitatingly. “ Do 
you live here?” asked Mrs. Houston, taking the 
little girl by the hand. 

“ Yes. That was. my papa that you were with,” 
the child replied. “ My name’s Rose Hurd, and 
his is Freddy Hurd.” She indicated her younger 
brother, who was already succumbing to Isabel’s 
wiles. 

“ Do you go to school? ” Mrs. Houston inquired. 

Rose shook her head. ‘‘ There isn’t any school 
here. Mother teaches us a little, but there’s the 
baby, and she doesn’t have much time.” 

“ I’d like to teach you,” said Mrs. Houston 
eagerly, giving the child a hug. “ Can’t you come 
down to our camp sometimes? ” 

“ I don’t know,” Rose answered. “ We’d like 
to, awfully. Do you live far away? ” 


8o 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


“ It’s quite a little way down the valley, but your 
father can bring you down some day, I’m sure. We 
just love children.” 

“Have you got a house?” questioned Freddy, 
looking from one to another. “ Do you all live in 
a big house? ” 

“ We have three little houses and a tent,” Isabel 
explained. “ So there will be a lot to look at. 
We’ll show you everything if you’ll come.” 

“ We’ll make papa bring us,” said Rose decisively. 
She was a thin, freckled miss, with her hair combed 
tightly back and braided into two slim pig-tails. 

“ I’ve been down to Martaville,” boasted the rud- 
dier Freddy. “ I went down with papa; and a lady 
down there had a white dog with black spots on it. 
And there was a post-office there, and they put all 
the letters into glass boxes, and you could look in 
and see ’em.” His eyes were big with the interest 
of his adventure. 

“ Truly marvelous ! ” Isabel caught the little fel- 
low to her. “ We’ll try to find something just as 
wonderful when you come to see us. We keep our 
butter in the spring. Maybe you’d like to see that.” 

Before the children ran off for their dinner, they 
had established a firm friendship with the visitors, 
and had promised to induce their father to bring 
them down to the lower camp. 

At the signal for dinner in the big dining-room, 
the Houstons and Isabel joined the horde of hungry 
men hastening across the mining location. The 
men stared to see the three women enter the dining- 
room and take places which the cook pointed out 
to them at a table covered with white oilcloth. A 


The Big Indian 8i 

hearty meal was set before them, of meat and po- 
tatoes and rice pudding. 

“ We’re grateful for this hospitality,” Mrs. Hous- 
ton remarked. “ Imagine the wails of starvation 
in the crowd, if we had had to wait till we got home, 
for something to eat. Did you think we’d have 
lunch up here, Gilbert? ” 

“ Well, no. I thought we’d get back in time. I 
didn’t realize that the forenoon would slip away so 
fast,” Mr. Houston confessed. “ But here in the 
West people expect to be offered a meal wherever 
they are. Everybody accepts that sort of thing as 
a matter of course. You ought to see how it is out 
on the ranches. Every one keeps open house, and 
no one hesitates to ride up to anybody else’s door 
at meal time.” 

“ That’s the true community spirit, isn’t it? ” said 
Isabel. “ I do wish I could see a ranch.” 

“ You must, before you leave this country,” said 
Meta. “ Perhaps we can work it out in some way. 
But you don’t want to tear yourself away from the 
mountains quite yet, do you? ” 

“ Not at this stage,” Isabel smiled, “ when I’m 
just beginning to understand how glorious they are.” 

After dinner, they made a short call on Mrs. Hurd 
and the baby, and then stopped at the office of the 
manager to thank him for the pleasures of their 
visit. It was after one o’clock when Mr. Sammis 
brought out the buckboard, and the party started 
for their own domain. The downward trip was 
easier and shorter than the somewhat toilsome jour- 
ney of the morning. 

They all gave a whoop of joy when they saw 


82 Isabel Carleton in the West 

their own little village come into sight down the 
valley. “ It begins to seem like home, doesn’t it? ” 
said Mrs. Houston. “ But how small and cuddled- 
up the cabins look there in the sun.” 

“ It’s surprising how quickly one curls himself up 
in a shell and calls it home,” said Isabel. “ Isn’t 
it Fannie Hurst who tells about a woman who was 
so domestic that ‘ with a yard of cretonne and a pho- 
tograph of her sister’s children in Kansas City, she 
could make a hotel bedroom look like the boudoir 
of a movie queen ’ ? ” 

Mrs. Houston laughed merrily. “That would 
be the true test of a home-maker,” she replied. 

“ Anyhow, it’s nice to get back to the camp,” Isa- 
bel sighed, “ though the expedition was beautiful. 
And just think! We found some children. If it 
hadn’t been for ‘ Jof-fer ’ everything would have 
been perfect. You don’t imagine he’ll ever really 
prowl down into our back yard, do you? ” 

“ Oh, no, I don’t believe so,” her companion an- 
swered. “ They say he sticks to his own stamping- 
ground.” 

“ Let us hope and pray that he will,” breathed the 
girl. “ I think bears are superfluous beasts. I 
don’t see why they were ever created.” 

“ Perhaps they weren’t intended to be fierce when 
they were created,” hazarded Mrs. Houston. 

The two tenderfeet alighted at the cabins, but 
Meta and her father rode their horses farther down 
to the improvised stable near the work-shacks. 

Isabel went into the Ritz to take off her hat and 
adjust her hair; then she sat down to re-read her 
letters, and to write a letter home. Mrs. Houston 


The Big Indian 83 

got out one of her thick educational books, which 
she had promised herself to read. Mr. Houston 
busied himself with putting some solid hooks for 
a hammock, so that it could swing between two of 
the cabins. The afternoon hastened on. 

When Isabel came out of the cabin at half-past 
four, she found Meta reading in the hammock. 

“ Have you written a three-volume novel? ’’ asked 
Meta, lowering her book. 

“ Not quite; only letters to mother and Fanny — 
long rambling ones — and one or two others. I 
slept for fifteen minutes, too,” she added guiltily; 
“ I never expected to nap in the afternoon till I was 
seventy-five, and weighed two hundred pounds. We 
never know how we’ll degenerate.” 

‘‘ I don’t call that degenerating; but I can’t sleep 
in the daytime,” said Meta. 

“ I wish I couldn’t,” Isabel complained. “ But 
what are you reading? Have you begun your stage- 
books already? ” 

“ I couldn’t resist them,” Meta replied. “ It’s 
fascinating stuff. I wonder why people are so com- 
monplace now? In those days they seemed to have 
such a — flavor.” 

“ They were more natural, perhaps.” Isabel 
leaned against the heavy ropes of the hammock. 
“ At least they didn’t suppress their emotions so 
much.” 

“ I should say they didn’t. I was just reading 
about Mrs. Siddons, the actress, and her two 
daughters. They had a romantic affair with Sir 
Thomas Lawrence,, it seems.” 

“ Sir Thomas Lawrence, the artist? I remem- 


84 Isabel Carleton in the West 

ber, he painted a beautiful portrait of Mrs. Siddons. 

I saw it in the National Gallery. But I don’t know 
that I ever heard of her daughters. Tell me about 
them.” Isabel was always keen for a romance. 

“ She had two, as I said, — Sarah and Maria. 
Well, Tom Lawrence — he wasn’t a Sir then — used 
to come to the house, and he fell in love with Sarah, 
and they were engaged. After a while, he began 
to act gloomy and moody, and Maria began to peak 
and pine. Then it came out that Lawrence was in 
love with Maria, and not Sarah, and he couldn’t live 
a minute without her.” 

“How did Mrs. Siddons receive that news?” 
Isabel inquired. 

“ She felt dreadfully on Sarah’s account. But 
Lawrence broke off with Sarah, and was engaged to 
Maria. Things went on for a while, Maria getting 
healthier and happier, and Sarah drooping with a 
broken heart. And then what do you suppose the 
fickle man did? ” Meta sat up straight in her ex- 
citement. 

“ I’m sure I don’t know.” 

“ He decided that it wasn’t Maria that he loved 
at all, but Sarah. And so he threw Maria over, to 
the horror of all concerned, and wanted to be en- 
gaged to Sarah again. But Maria began to go into 
a ‘ decline,’ and she actually died, and on her death- 
bed made Sarah promise that she wouldn’t marry 
Thomas ! ” 

“ No! Not really? ” Isabel was all agog over . 
this tale of the past. 

“ Yes, truly. And Sarah lived on for a while. 


The Big Indian 85 

and she died, and Thomas Lawrence never married 
anybody.’’ 

“ I should think nobody would want him,” ex- 
claimed Isabel indignantly. 

“ Well, he grew famous and rich, and he was 
handsome to begin with. I dare say somebody 
would have accepted him. But it’s a queer story, 
isn’t it?” 

“ It surely is. I wonder whether he ever found 
out which one he did care for? ” 

Isabel was pensive as she leaned against the ham- 
mock. 

“ If he did, he never told.” Meta sank to a more 
comfortable position. “ And oh, did you know that 
Charles Lamb wanted to marry the actress, Fanny 
Kelly?” 

“ Why, no, I don’t believe I ever heard of it. I 
supposed he loved to live with his sister, and didn’t 
care for any one else.” 

“ He wrote a letter to Fanny Kelly,” said Meta, 
talking fast, — “ it’s here in one of these books — 
asking her to marry him. And she wouldn’t be- 
cause she said she liked some one else better.” 

“ Well, I don’t think,” said Isabel quickly, “ that 
they ought to publish things like that. It seems 
terrible to have it all down in print on a page where 
any one can look at it. Just think how sensitive he 
was, and how horrified and humiliated he would be 
to have his most sacred feelings bandied about like 
that!” 

“ It does seem rather awful.” Meta closed her 
book thoughtfully and lay looking at the sky. “ I 


86 Isabel Carleton in the West 

didn’t think of that. It just seemed interesting to 
me.” 

“ I think it’s outrageous.” Isabel was flushed 
with indignation. “ How would we like to have 
things of that sort published about us? ” 

“ If we were dead, I don’t suppose we’d care very- 
much,” meditated Meta. 

“ It doesn’t matter whether we’re dead or not. 
We have a right to our individuality and our privacy 
just the same,” Isabel protested. 

“ M-maybe. But somehow I have the feeling 
that if we make ourselves famous, we forfeit the 
right to at least a certain amount of privacy. We 
demand the attention and praise of the public; and 
we can’t expect the public to stop at just the point 
we’d like it to. If we ask it — or them, whichever 
it is — to gaze upon our work and approve it and 
pay for it, we can’t blame them if they fasten their 
glare on us.” 

“ I don’t agree with you,” said Isabel. “ We 
have a right to expect the public to have more com- 
mon sense.” 

“ That’s asking rather too much,” Meta returned. 

“ When you get to be a ‘ stage favorite,’ then, 
you’ll expect to have your love letters published, and 
think nothing of it,” responded Isabel hotly. 

Meta colored. “ Probably I shan’t have any. I 
don’t know that I’d expect just that if I did have 
them ; but I do think that when you perform in public 
or write books or plays for the public, you lay your- 
self open to curiosity and criticism, and you’re an 
unreasonable prig if you aren’t willing to stand the 
consequences. I know it would just about kill me 


The Big Indian 87 

to be hauled over the coals by the dramatic critics; 
but if I ever got to where I counted for enough to be 
noticed, I’d have to take what came and not squirm.” 

“ Oh, dear, I suppose that’s true,” admitted 
Isabel. “ It doesn’t seem as if any critic could be 
so mean as to say scathing things about you, Meta; 
but if they did, you wouldn’t go down under it. I 
think being a critic is about the most undesirable job 
in the world, anyhow. Father says that most of the 
critics are people who can’t do things themselves. 
They live by making comments on people who are 
cleverer than they are.” 

“ That’s just about it,” Meta nodded wisely. 
“They may have their reason for existence; but I 
honestly think it’s worth more to do things, even if 
they aren’t perfect, than to sit in a little office and 
score those who are trying to accomplish something; 
or even praise them condescendingly.” 

“ So do I. But I certainly am glad that the 
papers don’t publish criticisms of jewelry work. I’d 
hate to have to read something like this : ‘ The 

pendant made last week by Miss Isabel Carleton 
lacks distinction. It has no originality and was evi- 
dently copied from something she saw at Tiffany’s. 
Her style in pendants is weak; her designs are sensa- 
tional and trite. We can’t imagine why she thinks 
she can make jewelry. She ought to be washing 
windows or weeding onions.’ ” 

Meta laughed. “ You should be thankful that 
you don’t have to stand things like that. Even from 
my small experience, I know how trying criticism is, 
and how one dreads what people are saying.” 

“ I don’t believe you’ll ever have very harrowing 


88 Isabel Carleton in the West 

attacks on your work,” said Isabel. She leaned over 
and gave Meta a kiss on the cheek. “ There, now! 
Go on with your reading. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
and I’ll see what we’re going to have for supper. 
I think I hear goings-on in Delmonico’s.” 

It was Isabel’s turn to get the dinner. She went 
into the cook-cabin, and found Mrs. Houston deftly 
concocting a blanc mange, “ to be eaten with straw- 
berry jam,” as she explained. 

“ Oh, you shouldn’t have done that,” remon- 
strated Isabel. “ It’s my turn to get supper, you 
know.” 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Houston, “ but you were busy, 
and I saw that this milk ought to be used.” 

“ It’s awfully good of you. You can do almost 
anything, can’t you? ” Isabel spoke admiringly. 

“ Dear me, hardly,” Mrs. Houston answered. 
“ My mother taught me to cook and keep house, for 
she said it made life so much easier for everybody if 
a woman knew how those things should be done.” 

“ I’m glad I’ve had domestic science,” said Isabel, 
getting some potatoes out of a bag. “ I don’t know 
what I’d do without it. I can’t do a lot of things, 
but I’ve learned a few. Mother and Fanny and I 
have to get the dinner once a week, you know, when 
the maid is out; and sometimes I’ve prepared the 
dinner all alone. So I’m not afraid of a kettle or a 
frying pan.” 

“ I wish Meta had taken some instruction in cook- 
ing and sewing. She seems so helpless about those 
things.” 

“ Well, a girl with high spirits, like Meta, doesn’t 
enjoy such things very much. They’re too tame.” 


The Big Indian 


89 

Isabel was washing the potatoes in a tin pan. “ And 
she hasn’t had much chance, either, moving around 
as she has.” 

“ I mean that she shall learn, even though it isn’t 
very congenial to her,” said the step-mother de- 
cisively. “ She’ll find it a convenience in her later 
life.” 

Isabel was paring the potatoes with firm rapid 
motions. “ I think I told you what I was going to 
have for supper,” she said; “ mashed potatoes, and 
those chops that Mr. Sammis brought this morning, 
with gravy. I don’t mean that he brought ’em with 
gravy — ” 

Presently Mrs. Houston went away; and Isabel, 
with extra care, because she wanted everything just 
right, finished the cooking and set the table. Very 
calmly, to show that she wasn’t flustered, she mashed 
the potatoes, and fried the chops. She finished at 
the time the “ boys ” came home, and she made the 
gravy while they washed their hands and faces. 

The meal was eminently successful. “ We cer- 
tainly have a few little chefs with us,” began George, 
as the plates were being changed for the dessert. 

“ No bouquets,” warned Mrs. Houston. “ We 
can’t be setting up a culinary rivalry here. You 
don’t mind, do you, Isabel? ” 

“ I should say not,” Isabel returned hastily. 

“ Quite right,” commented Mr. Houston. 

Isabel thought of Meta’s inexperience, and the 
intention of saving her any annoying comparisons. 
She launched into an account of the Big Indian trip, 
and the revelations about Joffre, and there was 
plenty of harmless talk until the meal was over. 


90 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


After supper, Mr. Houston wiped the dishes for 
Isabel, and entertained her with one of his experi- 
ences in a mining town in Alaska. 

Thoroughly wearied with her endeavors, she 
joined the three other young people on the “ Plaza ” 
in front of the cabins. There was still a half-hour 
before dark, and she meant to watch the changing 
lights on the mountains as the twilight faded. But 
Rodney and George had lapsed from serious men-of- 
business to hilarious lads at play. 

“ Hi, Isabel,” called Rodney, “ come on now. 
You’ve got to learn to ride. The idea of your being 
dragged up to the Big Indian in a buckboard. 
That’s a scandal in Montana society.” 

“ Oh, dear, I don’t want to learn now.” Isabel 
looked dismayed. She had been secretly dreading 
the time when she would have to mount a horse and 
ride over the perilous mountain paths. “ Have I 
got to? ” she quavered. 

“ Pos-i-/fi?^/y,” said Rodney. “ No excuses ac- 
cepted.” 

“ It doesn’t seem as if I could. It’s been such a 
busy day, and I’m so tired.” 

“ Every day will be busy and you’ll always be 
tired,” interpolated George. 

“ Your feelings don’t count,” said Rodney in- 
exorably. “ And haven’t I heard of your cavorting 
around on that pony out at your grandfather’s? ” 

“ Shorty, you mean? Oh, I’ve been on him once 
or twice, but he’s so little, and I always stepped right 
off the side porch onto his back, while grandfather 
held him. But a horse is such a big thing,” Isabel 
faltered. 


The Big Indian 91 

“ To be sure. The better to cart you around, my 
dear,” said Rodney in a Red-Riding-Hood tone. 

George and Meta were listening, much amused. 
“ I’ll bring Diana,” volunteered George. “ She’s 
as steady as a saw-horse — a pretty good sized 
one. 

“ You’ll feel as if she were twenty feet high, 
Isabel,” said Meta. “ You can’t ride in that skirt. 
Go and get your gymnasium rig on.” 

“ I don’t want to bother to change,” objected 
Isabel. 

“ It makes no difference what you want.” Meta 
bundled Isabel into the Ritz, and supervised the 
change from skirts to bloomers. She dragged 
Isabel forth by the arm just as George appeared 
leading Diana, a handsome intelligent black horse, 
which Mr. Houston had hired in the village of 
Martaville. 

Isabel had reached a stage of passive resignation. 
“What do I do first? ” she queried, standing help- 
lessly on the “ Plaza.” 

“ Get up on this bowlder,” said Rodney, “ and I’ll 
bring the horse alongside.” 

Isabel hopped up on the bowlder. Rodney ap- 
proached, leading Diana. Isabel began to flap her 
hands. “ Oh, don’t bring her so close,” she begged. 
The horse’s head with its black rolling eyes seemed 
suddenly appalling. 

“ She won’t hurt you. How do you expect to ride 
if she doesn’t come near you? ” asked Rodney scorn- 
fully. 

“ I don’t expect to.” Isabel was ready to jump 
down from the rock and retreat ignominiously into 


92 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


the cabin. Meta restrained her with a firm hold on 
her blouse. 

Rodney brought the horse up to the rock. 
“There!” he said, “you see she’s as gentle as a 
parlor sofa. Put your foot into the stirrup — 
Now! ” 

Isabel raised her foot hesitatingly. There was 
an outcry of laughter from Meta. “ Ha-ha ! 
She’s wrong-side-to. You’ll face the horse’s tail, 
Isabel. No, no! Turn around, and for goodness’ 
sake, don’t squeal so.” 

Isabel was biting her lips with vexation. “ I told 
you I didn’t know anything about it,” she said 
crossly. 

“ We’re helping you because you don’t know,” 
answered Rodney. He was grave, though his eyes 
were twinkling. “ Come on. Try again. Put 
your foot in the stirrup. There, that’s right.” 

The horse stepped forward a trifle, and Isabel 
was left with one foot in the stirrup, and the other 
hopping on the rock. She was clinging to the pom- 
mel of the saddle, and giving queer little shrieks of 
anxiety. 

Meta went off into convulsions of laughter again. 
“ Oh, Isabel,” she groaned, “ you’re so funny. I 
can’t stand it.” 

“ I think you’re unkind to roar like that.” Isabel 
looked over her shoulder with a dangerous light in 
her eye. 

“ Oh, come on. Be game. Get on this time,” 
begged Rodney, who dared not give way to his mirth. 

There was a jerk — a spring — a gasp. Isabel 


The Big Indian 93 

was on the horse, and clutching at the horn of the 
saddle. Her eyes were wild. 

“ Fine, fine ! ” cried George encouragingly. 

“Oh, Rod, be careful, won’t you?” Isabel 
pleaded. “ Don’t let go of the bridle.” 

“ No, I won’t yet. I’ll make her walk up and 
down as solemn as a dress-parade.” 

The horse did indeed seem twenty feet high. “ I 
never would have supposed she was such an enor- 
mous beast,” Isabel thought. “ I must look a 
sight.” She timidly put up one hand to smooth her 
hair. 

“ Now, let go of the horn of the saddle,” ad- 
monished Rodney, “ and get hold of the reins. No, 
both hands. I insist. There, that’s right. Guide 
your steed. You know how to do that, don’t 
you ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, of course.” Isabel made another fur- 
tive dab at her hair. 

“ Now Pm going to let go,” Rodney announced 
suddenly. 

“ Oh, don’t.” 

“ Yes, I shall,” said the riding master coolly. 
He let go of the bridle, and walked back toward 
the camp. 

The horse strode on up the valley, and Isabel sat 
swaying and quaking, but enjoying her ride rather 
more than she expected. If it had not been for the 
eyes of her companions boring into her back, she 
might have been almost at ease; but the knowledge 
that three hilarious young people were ready to 
burst into guffaws at her slightest mistake made her 


94 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


nervous and awkward. She was in the state of 
mind in which one does the silliest things, apparently 
without any power of restraint 

“ I think I’ve gone far enough,” she thought, as 
Diana continued her unrelenting way along the bank. 
“ I suppose I must turn around.” She began to pull 
at the reins and to make incoherent noises to the 
horse. Just then she felt her hair loosening on her 
neck, and put up a hand to it. The reins became 
crossed, and the puzzled horse began to throw her 
head about. Terrified, Isabel gave a hard tug at 
the reins. Obediently, but still mystified, the horse 
obeyed the silent command at the bit, and swerved 
into the scrub-oaks which bordered the path. “ Oh, 
whoa, whoa 1 ” called Isabel hoarsely, still pulling 
at the wrong rein. The horse went on into the low 
straggling oaks, where the rough branches leaned 
down to catch the unwary. Isabel was nearly swept 
off her steed, but crouching and shielding herself as 
best she could, she clung on desperately, still hauling 
mechanically at the crossed reins, and forcing the 
horse farther and farther from the road. “ Oh, 
whoa ! whoa ! whoa ! ” she kept shouting in anguish, 
while the boughs tore at her hair and her clothes. 

She heard Rodney calling, Hold on, hold on, 
Isabel,” in a voice nearly as frightened as her own; 
and she distinguished the hurried words of George 
and Meta, who appeared to be less alarmed than 
Rodney. 

The horse plunged on, and came at last to a stand- 
still with her nose against the stone wall of the cliff. 
Isabel felt a kind of vague wonder to note that she 
herself was still in the saddle, and still in a state 


The Big Indian 


95 


comparatively intact. She had rather supposed she 
was torn limb from limb. She sat helplessly till 
Rodney came up, his face showing a mixture of 
amusement and concern. 

“ What in the world are you trying to do? ” he 
cried as he approached through the thicket. “ You 
did pretty well to stay on. Are you torn to 
pieces? ” 

“ Yes, I think I am,” said Isabel, still dazed with 
her rash ride. She regarded her riddled sleeve and 
a long red scratch on her arm in a confused way, as 
if they might belong to some one else. “ I think I’m 
in ribbons. Rod.” Her voice broke. 

“ Don’t cry. For heaven’s sake, don’t cry,” 
begged Rodney hurriedly. “ Here are Meta and 
George.” 

“I — I won’t,” Isabel whimpered, composing her 
face as best she could. 

Rodney was helping her down when the others 
came up. ‘‘ You had the reins crossed! ” he said in 
a tone of suppressed disgust. “ I thought you knew 
better than that.” 

“ Isabel! you didn’t! ” said Meta, stifling a giggle 
at Isabel’s forlorn expression. 

“ I preferred ’em that way,” retorted Isabel, with 
spirit. 

“ Good for you, Isabel. Don’t let them badger 
you,” exclaimed George. “ But, by ginger, you did 
get a dig or two. You look as if you’d carried the 
good news from Ghent to Aix ! ” 

Meta could no longer control herself. She burst 
into peals of laughter. “ Oh, if you could see how 
you look!” she gasped. “You’re too funny for 


96 Isabel Carleton in the West 

words. I hope you aren’t hurt, for I can’t help 
roaring, even if you are.” 

“ I shan’t tell you if I am,” Isabel returned, with 
tears in her eyes. “ I don’t think it’s very nice of 
you to jeer at me like that — just because you’ve 
ridden all your life, and know all about everything.” 

“ I’m sorry — ” Meta began, trying to subdue her 
hilarity. 

Isabel glanced at Rodney, and saw him struggling 
to keep back a grin, while he looked his distress at 
her touchiness. Her face relaxed, and a slow smile 
crept over it. “ It’s all right, Meta,” she said, be- 
ginning to laugh wryly. “ I know I must be an 
awful sight.” 

“ Your blouse is in shreds,” Meta answered, 
taking stock of Isabel’s injuries. “ And you have a 
horrible scratch on your arm, and your hair is down, 
and your stockings are all to pieces, and your shoe is 
untied, and your feelings are barbarously lacerated. 
But you have your eyes, for which fact I’m glad; 
and apparently your bones aren’t broken. Come on 
home and be consoled, and make yourself look like 
our own Little Darling once more ! ” 

“ I told you I was too tired to ride,” Isabel re- 
marked; “ and I guess I’ve proved it.” 

“ You’ve proved something, but I’m not sure 
what it is,” said Rodney dryly. He took hold of the 
horse’s bridle, to lead the unhappy creature out of 
the thicket. 

“ Diana’s wondering what it’s all about,” said 
George sympathetically, patting the horse on the 
neck; “ she says she never ran across such a queer 
lady-centaur before,” 


The Big Indian 97 

“ Tm sorry for her. She’s a nice thing, if I did 
get her into a mess,” sighed Isabel. 

The procession started back to the village. The 
dusk was beginning to fall, and the group felt the 
witchery of the mountain twilight. They fell silent 
as they plodded back along the stream. 

“ Well, you’re collecting the thrills all right, 
aren’t you, Isabel?” said Rodney, as they neared 
the home Plaza. 

“ That’s what I came West for,” Isabel re- 
sponded. “ They give one a sort of a jolt while 
they’re happening; but I don’t care — I’m ready for 
a lot more.” 


CHAPTER VI 

BURNED MACARONI 


HE next few days passed quietly, with here 



and there an incident to distinguish one from 
another. 

On Friday, the forenoon was gray, with a sprinkle 
of rain, and every one kept indoors, reading, writing 
letters, knitting, or sewing. Isabel had mended a 
three-cornered tear in her bloomers; the blouse and 
hose were beyond mending, and had to be thrown 
away. Mr. Houston kept up the fire on the hearth 
in the Ritz-Carlton, though the day was not cold. 
Occasionally some one went to the door of cabin or 
tent for a glance at the mountains, which looked 
strange in their wrappings of gray and purple mist. 

About noon, the sun came out, and the rain dried 
away; the clouds melted from the mountains, and the 
landscape assumed its normal guise. 

Isabel and Meta climbed the rocks behind the 
cabin, and sat for a long time looking across the 
valley and down the stream, where they could catch 
a glimpse of the work-camp, over the jutting edge 
of the cliff. In the midst of her exaltation at the 
beauty of the view, Isabel was thinking of the prosaic 
fact that it was Meta’s day for preparing the 
supper. She studiously refrained from revealing 
her thoughts, however. Meta had a nervous air as 
they came down to the cabins again. 


Burned Macaroni 


99 


At the door of Delmonico’s, Meta paused. “ I 
suppose I’ve got to get supper,” she burst out. 
“ What on earth am I going to have? ” She stood 
looking like the Tragic Muse, with her eyes fixed on 
vacancy. 

“ I thought it was to be shredded wheat biscuit,” 
returned Isabel, trying to be jocular, though she was 
really disturbed. 

“Can’t you suggest something?” asked Meta 
irritably. 

“ Why don’t you have something that you like, 
yourself? ” Isabel ventured. 

“ There isn’t anything that I like at this mo- 
ment,” said Meta with a satirical smile. 

“ You really should have planned your bill of fare 
before,” Isabel could not help saying. “ You know 
it isn’t so easy to get up a meal on short notice as it 
is if you take plenty of time.” 

“ I couldn’t bear to think of it,” Meta explained. 
“ It was impossible to concentrate on such a painful 
subject.” 

“ Well, you’ll have to concentrate all the harder 
now. Why don’t you have macaroni and tomatoes? 
We haven’t had that yet.” 

“ How do you do it? ” queried Meta grimly. 

“ You just break up the macaroni into little pieces, 
and cook it in salted water, and then you have the 
canned tomato heated, and you put them together, 
with butter and pepper, of course. It’s as easy as 
pie.” 

“ Just about as easy as pie would be to me,” sighed 
the unwilling cook. “ But we’ll have to have some 
kind of meat, shan’t we? ” 


lOO 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


“ This isn’t the day for Mr. Sammis to bring 
meat. You’ll have to invent something.” 

“ I think it’s too bad that I have to get dinner on 
a meatless day,” exclaimed Meta hotly. 

Isabel laughed. “ You would enjoy cooking 
steak for the crowd! ” 

Meta shuddered. “ I believe I prefer it meat- 
less,” she admitted. 

Isabel pondered the situation. “ There’s nice 
corned beef, canned. You could have that sliced, 
with mustard; and have two hot dishes, — the 
macaroni, and baked potatoes. Those are easy. 
And you might have some hot biscuits.” 

“ Who’s going to make biscuits? ” glared Meta. 

“ Oh, I forgot you couldn’t,” Isabel apologized. 
“ Well, there’s bread left, though it isn’t very fresh.” 

“ Oh, dear,” groaned Meta, “ I know I can’t get 
together anything fit to eat. The crowd will starve 
to death before morning.” 

“ No danger,” Isabel answered cheerfully. She 
went into the sitting-room tent, where Mrs. Houston 
was carefully knitting a heel into an army sock. “ I 
think I’d better help Meta with her supper,” Isabel 
suggested in a low tone. “ It’s really an affliction 
to her to have to get it.” 

“ I’d rather you didn’t,” Mrs. Houston answered. 
“ You did yours alone, and it’s only fair that she 
should do the same. She needs the experience.” 

“ Oh, but — ” Isabel began. 

“ She’ll get on all right,” said Mrs. Houston, 
stopping to count stitches. “ She’s quick at learning 
things; and she has imagination, — I always contend 
that a cook needs that.” 


Burned Macaroni 


lOI 


“ I don’t know that it’s everything,” Isabel an- 
swered dubiously. 

She went back and stood in the door of the cook- 
cabin. Meta, in a long apron, was scrubbing the 
potatoes, her handsome head bent sternly over the 
pan. She laid the spotless potatoes out on the table, 
and then lighted the oven of the oil stove. 
“ Isabel,” she called querulously, as she stood with 
the spent match in her hand, “ what shall I have for 
dessert? ” 

“ Isn’t there something in a can?” asked Isabel 
vaguely. 

“ I don’t see anything except canned cherries, and 
there’s nothing very filling about them. I’m 
ashamed to give the family a skimpy dessert, when 
they’re not getting any hot meat. There ought to 
be something hearty.” 

“Your oven will be hot for the potatoes: why 
don’t you make a cottage pudding with vanilla sauce? 
You really haven’t much of anything to cook, since 
the meat is ready, and the potatoes cook themselves.” 

Meta gave a tragic gesture. “ You sound like 
one of those women’s magazines that tell ‘ How I 
Entertained the Binkses over Sunday without a 
Maid.’ You could make a fortune if you’d only 
write as you talk. You ought to employ a 
stenographer to take down your words of wisdom.” 

Isabel looked vexed. “ Well, you asked me,” she 
replied. “ Now you make fun of me because I 
answer you.” 

“No, I never made fun of you. I take you with 
deadly seriousness. What kind of thing was that 
that you suggested — a log-cabin pudding? ” 


102 Isabel Carleton in the West 

“No. A cottage pudding. You know — a 
cake-pudding, some people call it. Put your pota- 
toes into the oven, and I’ll tell you how. Here, 
I’ll go and write it down, while you’re getting the 
macaroni ready.” 

She came back presently with a slip of paper. 
“ It’s no harder than candy, and you’ve made that,” 
she said encouragingly. 

“ I don’t believe that I can do it, any more than 
I can fly,” said Meta, as she took the receipt. 

Isabel’s heart sank as she saw how awkwardly 
Meta was doing things, and how the nervous color 
was rising to her cheeks. She went back to Mrs. 
Houston. “ I’m all worked up about Meta,” she 
said. “ I still think I’d better help her.” 

“ Truly, I think it’s better to let her do it alone,” 
answered Mrs. Houston. “ She needs just that sort 
of thing. She has allowed herself to believe that 
she could always get somebody to do what she didn’t 
want to do, herself. Any girl ought to learn how 
to put a simple meal on the table, and here Meta is 
almost a grown-up young woman.” 

“ But this is quite an undertaking.” 

“ She should have started earlier, and she would 
have been all right.” The lady had the calmness 
of one who has dealt with girls for years, and en- 
countered innumerable problems of self-pity and 
procrastination and high temper. 

Isabel went to the Ritz-Carlton and tried to 
read. She found that the words meant nothing to 
her, and that her foot was tapping the floor. Now 
and then she caught the sounds of the struggle in 
the next cabin. 


Burned Macaroni 


103 


At last she could stand the strain no longer, and 
went over to Delmonlco’s, determined to help at 
least with the last details of the meal. She found 
that Mrs. Houston had just entered the kitchen. 

“How are you getting on, Meta?” asked the 
step-mother in a cheery tone which faintly suggested 
the school-teacher. 

Meta was twisting a handkerchief around a 
burned finger. “ Horribly,” she snapped. And 
then she added with an injustice to which she was 
goaded by the smarting of her injured hand, “ You 
just wanted me to fail, anyway.” 

“ Why, Meta ! ” Mrs. Houston looked shocked. 

Meta went on, her voice trembling. “ If you had 
let her, Isabel would have helped me. I heard you 
whispering in the tent. You kept her from making 
it easier for me.” 

“ But, Meta,” said the other in a studiously con- 
trolled tone, “ it wasn’t Isabel’s place to help you. 
She did her share yesterday.” 

“ You didn’t care so much about that. And you 
helped her, too. Wasn’t it you who made the pud- 
ding? ” 

“ I’d forgotten it,” Mrs. Houston confessed. “ I 
did it because I noticed that we had some milk on 
hand that needed to be used.” 

“ You wouldn’t do it for me. You wanted to 
humiliate me,” Meta cried wrathfully. 

Mrs. Houston was pale but steady. “ You know 
that isn’t true,” she said in quiet protest. 

Isabel stood miserably behind her, not knowing 
whether to stay or go. She was vaguely aware of 
an acrid odor permeating the atmosphere. “ Oh, 


104 Isabel Carleton in the W est 

something’s burning,” she burst out, when she had 
recognized the odor. 

Mrs. Houston stepped to the stove, and lifted off 
the saucepan of macaroni and tomatoes. Meta 
stood transfixed. Mrs. Houston proceeded to 
empty the contents of the saucepan into another, and 
to turn down the flame of the stove. 

Isabel ran to set the table. It was nearly time 
for the young men to come home. Mrs. Houston 
silently made the vanilla dressing for the pudding, 
and put on the water for the tea. She left Meta to 
complete the larger preparations for the meal. 
There were few words exchanged, as the three 
women went back and forth. 

Isabel remembered that there were some radishes 
and young onions in a pail of spring-water. She 
hastily washed and cleaned some of them, while 
Meta mixed the mustard. Meta, with the step of 
an insulted princess, was putting the food on the 
table. The corned beef was lumpy and crumbling, 
from having been cut with too dull a knife. The 
bread had suffered in the same way; the slices were 
thin at one edge and thick at the other. “ But they 
will taste just as well,” thought Isabel, appearing 
not to notice. “ I do hope to goodness that the 
other things are all right.” 

The three men had caught some inkling of the 
strained situation, and they talked very busily among 
themselves, with no word for the food set before 
them. The potatoes proved to be insufficiently 
baked. The skins were burned from too hot a 
flame, but the insides were hard and watery. The 


Burned Macaroni 105 

macaroni tasted scorched to such a degree that most 
of it was left on the plates. 

The boys ate manfully, with now and then a fur- 
tive glance at each other. Meta, her cheeks flaming 
and her lips fixed in a bitter line, sat without eating 
or speaking. Rodney told a joke that fell rather 
flat. George, in the easy genial way which came so 
naturally with him, created a diversion by telling a 
little episode of the day. 

“ One of the men came to me to-day,” he said, 
“ and asked me ‘ what mean, in ingles, spee-rit.’ 
He said it over two or three times. At first I didn’t 
understand him, and then I made out that he meant 
spirit, ghost, I tried to explain it with the help of 
another Greaser who knew a little more English, 
and they jabbered about it and got quite excited. I 
suppose they have some superstition among them- 
selves that he was referring to, but I couldn’t make 
it out.” 

“ I know a few words of Spanish. Perhaps I 
could talk with them,” ventured Isabel. 

“ Better not,” said Rodney, frowning. “ They 
might get too fresh. We get along all right. I 
talk to them by working my arms up and down — 
the pumphandle method of mastering a foreign 
tongue, I call it.” 

“ Too bad it isn’t taught in the colleges,” mur- 
mured Isabel. “ Perhaps they’ll take you into the 
Romance language department at Jefferson.” 

“ It’s a romance all right, to see me uttering 
honeyed phrases with my elbows to a big Greaser 
with a pick in his hand,” Rodney returned. 


io6 Isabel Carleton in the West 

Meta got up to change the plates and bring the 
dessert. There was an awkward pause, which Mrs. 
Houston tried to fill by sprightly talk about nothing 
in particular. 

Isabel noted with horror that the pudding was a 
hopeless failure. Each person gazed airily beyond 
his soggy floury cube of a sickly yellow color, deluged 
with rich thick sauce. Mr. Houston, answering his 
wife absently, took up his spoon and then laid it 
down again. He looked distressed as he watched 
for Meta to come back from the kitchen. But Meta 
did not come back. She had slipped away to the 
Ritz, where Isabel found her crying, after the family 
had left the table. 

It seemed a dreadful thing to see Meta break 
down like that, for Meta never cried, as Isabel fre- 
quently did when things went wrong. 

“ Oh, now, Meta,” Isabel said wretchedly, putting 
her hand on Meta’s hair, as the other girl lay with 
her face down, on the cot, “ it isn’t worth bothering 
about at all. Don’t be so unhappy about it.” 

“ It — it was an awful dinner,” gasped Meta, 
mopping her eyes. 

“ It was all right,” responded the loyal friend, 
“ and anyhow, it doesn’t matter. Quong gives those 
boys a regular Christmas dinner every day, down 
there at the camp. They haven’t been hurt any.” 

“ But it was so humiliating,” Meta whimpered. 
“ What will George think? ” 

Isabel’s lips twitched with amusement in spite of 
her real concern. “ Nonsense,” she said briskly. 
“ George doesn’t care whether you can cook or not.” 

“ Well, mother might have helped me, or let you 


Burned Macaroni 


107 

help me,” Meta complained. “ She knew I had 
never really done any cooking before.” 

“ But she thought it was time you learned. She 
didn’t realize that it would be so hard for you.” 

“ I shan’t forgive her.” Meta sat up, rubbing 
her eyes with her wet handkerchief. 

“ Oh, now, Meta,” Isabel remonstrated, “ you’ve 
always been sorry when you’ve been hard and un- 
forgiving.” 

“ No, I haven’t. And anyhow, I can’t be soft and 
easy when people are unkind to me.” 

“ Meta, nobody’s been unkind to you.” 

“ Yes, they have. Even you came near it.” 

Isabel drew a long breath of impatience. 
“ George and I are going to wash the dishes,” she 
said. “ You lie here and rest. And you ought to 
have something to eat. You haven’t eaten a thing.” 

“ Nothing was fit to eat,” answered Meta. 

Isabel left her and went out to where the table 
still stood in front of the cook-kitchen. Mr. 
Houston and the younger men were standing about, 
talking of the War in Europe; they appeared ob- 
livious of all less important things. 

Meta had forgotten to put on the dish-water, and 
Isabel now hastened to put some on the stove in a 
large kettle. While she was clearing off the table, 
George left the others and came to help her. 

“What’s the matter with Meta?” he asked 
casually, as he set a pile of plates on the kitchen 
table. “ Isn’t she coming out to join her friends? ” 

Isabel was getting soap and towels ready for the 
process of washing the dishes. “ She feels a little 
upset because she thinks her dinner wasn’t all that 


io8 Isabel Carleton in the West 

she wanted it to be,” Isabel replied. “ It was her 
turn to get the dinner or supper, whichever it is that 
we have, and you know she isn’t used to cooking.” 

“ It was all right,” said George soberly. “ We 
aren’t fussy out here, and supposing she did have 
some trouble, she shouldn’t get excited over it.” 
His usually bright face was downcast. 

“ She’ll get over it in a little while,” said Isabel. 

“ Can’t Mrs. Houston soothe her ruffled feel- 
ings? ” asked George. “ She’s so calm and poised 
and so fond of Meta, I should think she could fix 
things up in fine shape.” 

Isabel began to dip the water out of the kettle. 
“ We-ell,” she said slowly, “ the fact is, Meta is just 
a little — er, vexed, I think you’d call it, at Mrs. 
Houston.” 

“Hum, — mad at her step-mother is she?” said 
George. He went to the basin in the corner to wash 
his hands before wiping the dishes. 

Isabel started at the bluntness of the words. “ I 
wish you wouldn’t put it like that,” she said. 

“ It doesn’t hurt to say things ‘ right out,’ ” 
George answered. “ It’s been a trifle hard for 
Meta to adjust herself to the new conditions, and 
she’s unnecessarily sensitive, anyhow. And I’m sure 
Mrs. Houston is not to blame for Meta’s being edge- 
wise at her. She wants so much to have things har- 
monious and happy.” 

“ Meta knows that, too,” Isabel answered, deftly 
washing the dishes while George dried them rather 
awkwardly. “ And she’ll see the uselessness of this 
mixup when she comes to herself. But it is trying 
to the rest of us. Mrs. Houston takes it as coolly 


Burned Macaroni 


109 

as can be. I don’t see why she isn’t more worked 
up over it, though of course I’m glad she isn’t.” 

“ She has sense enough to know that it’s best to 
let things blow over, and not have a lot of talk 
about them. She realizes that it’s only a tempest 
in a teapot.” 

“ Yes, and I suppose we shouldn’t talk about it, 
either,” said Isabel slowly. “ It seems rather dis- 
loyal to be dissecting people behind their backs, if 
you’ll forgive my muddled way of putting it.” 

“ Right-0,” George replied, wiping a cup with 
careful hands. 

They found plenty of other things to talk of while 
their task engaged them. When they went out into 
the air again, the evening had fallen, crisp and cool. 
The dusk seemed to Isabel more delicious than ever; 
except for the discomfort of the contretemps with 
Meta, the night would have been perfect. She and 
Rodney walked up and down on the bank of the 
stream, while the glint of the sunset grew sparser 
on the water, and the blue dusk settled more deeply 
into the valley. 

“ You’re getting along finely with the weir, aren’t 
you. Rod? ” asked Isabel. 

“ Why, yes, I think we are,” Rodney rejoined. 
“ We’re getting on so well that I think we’ll finish be- 
fore the time allotted to us.” 

“ That’s good. I noticed to-day how the work 
was progressing — at least to my unpracticed eye.” 

“ Yes, I confess it seems to be all right. I can’t 
think of anything that could happen to spoil it.” 
Rodney spoke as if he were afraid of being too san- 
guine. 


no Isabel Carleton in the West 

“ Nothing could, of course,” said Isabel. 
“ You’ve planned it all carefully, and covered every 
point, haven’t you? ” 

“ We think we have. I don’t believe anything 
has escaped us. We’re tremendously anxious to do 
well in this. George thinks it might mean some- 
thing permanent for him; even if he should go to 
France, there might be an opening for him when he 
came back. And of course I want to make good, 
too. I’d like to have some recommendations when 
I get out of college, or a place to look to.” 

“ Well, surely you don’t need to worry,” said 
Isabel, with an aggressive cheerfulness. 

Rodney was strolling thoughtfully along with his 
hands in the pockets of his jacket. “ I don’t think 
so,” he replied. “ The workmen are pretty tract- 
able now. George and I didn’t say anything about 
it, but at first we had a little trouble with them. 
They had a kind of suspicion that we were so young 
we didn’t know what we were doing, but that idea’s 
out of their heads now, I guess. I’m glad of that, 
for they’re such fiery galoots that I’d hate to have 
them get stirred up about anything.” 

“ What would they get stirred up about? ” Isabel 
laughed. 

“ Nothing that I know of,” admitted Rodney. 
“ The fact is. I’m quite elated. It all seems to be 
turning out splendidly.” 

“ And we’re all enjoying this free and easy out- 
door life so much.” 

“ Camp life does one thing or the other for you,” 
Rodney said as they paced quietly along. “ It nar- 
rows your mind down to details so that you degener- 


Burned Macaroni 


III 


ate into petty personal comment, or else it broadens 
your outlook to a larger view of things in general. 
Do you remember the day out at your grandfather’s, 
when we sat on the bridge down in the meadow, and 
talked, and wondered how it would be to spend a 
summer in the mountains? ” 

“ And now we begin to know how delightful it 
is,” Isabel answered. “ But there are problems in 
every place you get into, aren’t there? ” 

“ That’s because you can’t run away from your- 
self. In fact, everybody is his own problem, I sup- 
pose.” 

“ I feel somewhat guilty,” Isabel meditated, as 
they turned in the path to walk back, “ because 
things are made so easy for me.” 

“ Well, women should have things made easy for 
them,” said Rodney. 

“ No, they shouldn’t. That’s an old-fashioned 
idea.” 

“ I’ve heard you say that before.” 

“ I’ll keep on saying it till you change your mind. 
Women ought to take their right places in the world, 
and not necessarily the easy places. There have 
been enough of the pussy-cat women, cuddling into 
the comfortable places, and keeping their paws 
white and their fur smooth.” Rodney gave an ap- 
preciative chuckle. “ The men shouldn’t face all the 
struggles and then let the women share the successes 
and rewards,” Isabel concluded, warm with her sub- 
ject. 

“ Who says so? ” queried Rodney in a tone which 
suggested the tease. 

“ All nice, intelligent women — mother, and 


1 12 Isabel Carleton in the West 

Cousin Eunice, and Mrs. Houston, and oh, plenty of 
others.” 

“ I have a good deal of respect for those ladies’ 
opinions,” conceded the young man, “ but — ” 

“ The time will come when all women, married 
or single, will be self-supporting; it will be a matter 
of principle and pride with them.” Isabel was 
echoing Mrs. Houston’s sentiments in a tone more 
militant than the older lady had assumed. 

“ I was just wondering about the married ones,” 
said Rodney meekly. 

“ Women aren’t so eager to marry as they used 
to be. They don’t want to marry just to have a 
home and be supported. They can have their own 
homes and support themselves.” 

“Whew! I see I’m an old fogy, at my early 
age,” the man responded with an exaggeration of 
bewilderment. 

“ You’d better look out, or you will be. This 
is woman’s hour.” Isabel’s voice bubbled into 
laughter. 

Rodney laughed, too, and changed the subject by 
reminding Isabel of her “ ride from Ghent to Aix.” 
“ I guess it was aches all right,” he said. “ You 
haven’t felt any ill effects, have you? ” 

“ Not in the least, except to my vanity; that ached 
a little. I know I was a silly spectacle,” Isabel 
rejoined. 

“ I shouldn’t bother about that. Say, it’s getting 
chilly, isn’t it? ” 

They now arrived at the “ village,” and found 
George getting together some materials for a fire — 
bits of packing-boxes, brush, and a good-sized pine 


Burned Macaroni 


113 

knot or two from the pile which had been left when 
the work of cleaning up about the cabins had been 
completed. 

“Hooray for George!” cried Rodney. “Just 
what we were wishing for.” 

“ I’m like an icicle,” said Isabel, though she had 
put on her green sweater before she started. 

A thin blade of flame shot up through the dusk. 
The fire began to glow and crackle. “ Come on and 
toast yourselves,” invited George. He brought out 
cushions and steamer rugs. Isabel went into the 
Ritz, and discovered Meta sitting at the little win- 
dow in the dark. After a show of reluctance, Meta 
consented to come out to the fire, for she was really 
cold and bored. Nobody said anything as the two 
girls joined the group. Mr. and Mrs. Houston 
came from the tent where they had been playing 
cribbage, and sat with the others before the blaze. 

After a while, Mrs. Houston disappeared; a light 
twinkled in the cook-cabin. And then she appeared 
again with a big pitcher of hot chocolate and a pile 
of tin cups. 

“ Hurrah for the life-saver! ” She was greeted 
with a cheer. 

“ If somebody will get the sandwiches, we’ll have 
a picnic around the fire,” she said briskly. 

George ran for the plates of sandwiches, — 
“Three kinds: sardine, and meat, and cheese,” he 
announced. “ And there’s something to ’em, be- 
lieve me. They’re not the little afternoon tea kind 
that you get at the University receptions.” 

Mr. Houston brought a dish of cookies and ginger 
snaps from the packages on the shelf. The inade- 


1 14 Isabel Carleton in the West 

quate dinner was supplemented in a way which could 
not hurt even Meta’s feelings, and the sound of 
laughter and banter echoed through the incessant 
chatter and scolding of the stream. 

On Saturday, Meta was still sulking. She spoke 
but little during the forenoon, as they all went about 
their tasks. When she had finished tidying the Ritz, 
she went out into the ravine behind the camp, to 
practice her voice exercises, and was gone a long 
time. When she came back, she sat in the sun read- 
ing her books on the history of the stage, and had no 
word for any one. 

Before noon, Mr. Sammis arrived with supplies 
and the mail; and a mysterious parcel, long and 
clumsy, with slender sticks protruding from it. 
“ What’s that, Gilbert? ” asked Mrs. Houston, per- 
plexedly. 

“ A surprise,” replied her husband. “ Something 
to amuse the children.” 

“ I can guess what it is,” said Isabel. “ Flags.” 

“ No, we have some of those stowed away in the 
Waldorf,” Mr. Houston answered. “ Guess again. 
The Fourth is coming, you know.” 

“ Oh, fireworks I ” 

“ You said it. I can’t surprise these smart young- 
sters, no matter how much I try.” 

“You do think of the nicest things,” said Mrs. 
Houston, “ even though we do tease you about your 
army-trucks of stuff. I was wondering how we were 
going to celebrate.” 

Meta stood looking on without saying anything. 


Burned Macaroni 


115 


Ordinarily, she would have had a gay word for her 
father, whom she devotedly loved. She watched 
while he put the fireworks away in the tent, where 
they would be kept dry. 

Mrs. Houston proceeded with the lunch, which 
she was preparing, and Meta came silently to set the 
table. Isabel was making a salad in Delmonico’s. 
All at once, Mrs. Houston put down the plate which 
she was piling with bread, and turned to her step- 
daughter. She slipped her arm around the girl’s 
waist. “ Meta, dear,” she said gently, “ I love you, 
you know.” Meta stood looking down, while a flush 
mounted to her cheeks. She appeared as stony and 
unyielding as ever. “ I wouldn’t willingly do any- 
thing unkind to you,” the step-mother went on. 
“ You know that, don’t you? ” 

“ Y-yes, I suppose so,” murmured Meta, unwill- 
ing to give up her grievance. 

“ I thought we understood each other,” Mrs. 
Houston continued. “ I supposed that we had set- 
tled everything that night at Jefferson, the night of 
the play.” 

Meta still looked proud and hard. “ I thought 
so, too,” she said; “ but one never knows what will 
come up.” 

“ Nothing ought to come up that will separate us, 
dear. I’m sorry for my thoughtlessness. I didn’t 
realize how hard you might find it to get a simple 
supper for us.” 

“ It seems easy to you,” Meta answered. “ But 
I’ve never done a thing of that sort; and it did seem 
as if you were more unkind than you needed to be.” 


Ii6 Isabel Carleton in the West 

“ I suppose I was.” Mrs. Houston spoke 
humbly. “ But I was doing what I thought was the 
best thing.” 

Meta began to soften. “I — I’m sorry I was so 
silly,” she stammered. 

“ I’ll help you, the next time,” said Mrs. Houston. 

“ You needn’t,” the girl responded quickly. “ I 
see that I ought to do my share, without depending 
on any one else. It’s a shame for me to let my 
temper get away with me.” 

“ It’s a little hard on the rest of us,” smiled the 
other. 

“ I’m glad you didn’t know me a year or two 
ago,” said Meta, beginning to smile, herself. “ I’m 
a lamb now, compared to what I was then. When 
I have a childish fit of temper like this, I get so dis- 
couraged. It seems as if I should never get tamed 
down, and be like other people — calm and amiable, 
like you and Isabel.” 

Isabel broke in with a laugh. “ You ought to 
see me in a tantrum,” she cried; “ but then. I’m sure 
you have. Why, it’s only a little while since I had 
that awful feud with Fanny, and I had thought that 
I was such a grown-up young lady that I’d never get 
mad at anybody again.” 

“ Even some of us still-more-grown-up people 
have our outbursts of temper,” Mrs. Houston re- 
marked, going back to the bread. “ And I love 
your spirits, Meta, and your vivacity, and your — 
what shall I say? — your absolute integrity.” 

“ You sound like a letter of recommendation,” 
laughed Meta. “ The thing that ails me is a hard 
case of temperament.” 


Burned Macaroni 


117 

“ Don’t let your temperament, so-called, run 
away with you.” 

“ I shan’t. I’ll put a ball and chain on it.” 

“ Nothing so restraining. A good strong pull 
now and then is all it needs.” 

“ It will get it. You’ll see.” 

“ I’m sure I shall see something good,” Mrs. 
Houston responded. “ I suppose your father is 
starving while we stand here and talk.” In a few 
moments, a relieved and happy group of people sat 
down at the out-of-door table. 

The two young men had their lunch at the work- 
camp, as usual. They were taking a part of a half- 
holiday on this Saturday afternoon, but stayed at 
the work-camp to oversee the careful disposal of 
tools and materials. They strolled up to the village 
between two and three o’clock. 

“ We’re going to work on the bridge this after- 
noon,” called George, as the girls came to the door 
of the Ritz-Carlton. The men stood with their 
sleeves rolled up, ready to go to work. 

“ Aren’t you tired? Can’t you take a vacation? ” 
asked Meta. 

“ No, madam, we are not tired,” answered 
George. “ What do you think we are — molly- 
coddles? ” 

“ Hardly, with such arms,” commented Isabel. 

The muscles of our brawny arms 
Are strong as iron hands 

misquoted Rodney. “ We’re going to show you 
how the quickness of the hand deceives the eye. 


ii8 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


We’ll have a bridge across the foaming torrent be- 
fore you know what’s happened.” 

“What are you going to do it with?” inquired 
Meta in a skeptical tone. 

“ Oh, stones, and logs, and planks,” said George. 
“ And by the way, Rod, we should have brought a 
cant-hook.” 

“ In the bright lexicon of youth there is no such 
word as canU-hook/^ said Rodney solemnly. 

“ Well, a can-hooky then. By any other name it 
would yank as hard.” 

“ I’ll get one,” yielded Rodney; “ and a crow-bar; 
and our rubber boots.” 

The work on the bridge began with the rolling 
of several bowlders into place. The young men, in 
rubber boots, waded into the shallow stream, while 
the girls sat on the bank, and looked on, chatting 
foolishness, as young people will. 

“ Let’s make some ‘ I thought I saw ’ verses,” 
suggested Isabel. “ I haven’t made any for ages.” 

“ You begin,” said Meta, who was not much of a 
versifier. 

“ M-m, let me see,” meditated Isabel. “ Te-tum, 
te-tum, te-tum, te-tum: 

“ I thought I saw across the stream 
A barrel full of frogs ; 

I looked again, and lo ! it was 
A noble bridge of logs. 

‘ Hang on with all your toes,’ said I. 

‘ You’ll fall and wet your togs.’ ” 

“ Not bad.” There was laughter from the 
volunteer workmen. 


Burned Macaroni 


119 

“ I think that’s about as silly as anything could 
be,” said Isabel. “ Now, George, it’s your turn.” 

George was red in the face from his exertions, 
and his thick auburn hair was blown in the wind. 
He stood leaning on his crow-bar. “ I wonder if I 
could make one,” he muttered. “ Why can’t I think 
of something? ” He mumbled to himself a bit, and 
then came out with : 

“ I thought I saw upon the bank 
Two large and priceless pearls. 

I looked again, and lo ! it was 
A pair of college girls. 

* You’d best avoid the creek,’ said I. 

^ ’Twill straighten all your curls.’ ” 

The young women giggled appreciatively, though 
neither of them was given to ringlets. 

“ I have one,” announced Rodney, who had been 
half audibly struggling with his rhymes. He had a 
malicious twinkle in his eyes. 

“ What is it? ” asked Meta innocently. 

I thought I saw within our hut 
A water-spout of suds; 

I looked again, and lo ! it was 
Our Meta cooking spuds. 

‘ You’d best put on your coat,’ said I. 

‘ You’ll ruin all your duds.’ ” 

Meta looked annoyed at this reference to her 
culinary defeat. “I baked the potatoes; I didn’t 
boil them,” she retorted, flushing. “ And I burned 
the macaroni. Nothing boiled over.” 

“ Except your temper, eh? ” Rodney pretended 


120 


Isabel Carleton in the JV est 


to be busy with a stone. “ That was almost a 
geyser, wasn’t it? ” 

Meta grew redder. “ I think your verses are 
horrid,” she cried. “ I never heard such coarse 
language.” 

“ This wild life has made us barbaric,” responded 
Rodney cheerfully. “ See here, George. This is 
steady enough for a one-plank foot-bridge, isn’t it? 
Let’s fix one up temporarily, so that our refined lady 
friends can trip across it.” 

They laid the planks upon the bowlders, and 
steadied them with small posts driven into the sand. 
A crude bridge spanned the current and touched the 
hitherto inaccessible shore. 

“ The tribes will now enter the Promised Land,” 
called Rodney. “ Come on, tribes. You first, 
Meta.” 

Meta cautiously made her way across the narrow 
board, swaying and gasping, but keeping a steady 
footing. She bounded into the grass of the meadow, 
with a relieved “ Ah-h-h ! ” 

“ Come on, Isabel,” said Rodney. “ You aren’t 
afraid, are you? ” 

“ Far from it.” Isabel stood ready to start. 
“ It takes more than that to phase me.” 

“ Don’t get the reins crossed,” admonished 
George. “ Remember the ride from Ghent to Aix.” 

“ It’s mean to remind me of that now,” pouted 
Isabel. She started across at a leisurely pace. 
Halfway across she stopped and looked down into 
the water. “ Are there fish in this part of the 
stream?” she asked, for the sake of saying some- 
thing as she stood poised on the narrow plank. 


Burned Macaroni 121 

“ Big ones,” answered Rodney quizzically. 

At that moment, Isabel’s foot slipped, and the 
plank canted at a perilous angle. Waving her 
arms, clutching the air, over Isabel went with a 
splash into the creek. She did not fall at full length, 
but stood up to her knees in the cold swift water. 

“ Ha, ha I Big ones ! ” repeated Rodney. 

“ Gold fish! ” exclaimed George. Isabel’s bright 
hair was gleaming in the sun. 

They all laughed except Isabel. She stood in the 
water, half dazed and dripping. “ It’s all George’s 
fault,” she said crossly; “ he shouldn’t have made so 
much of my previous misfortunes. George Burn- 
ham, I’m awfully angry at you. You wanted me to 
fall in.” 

“ I never did, — honest, cross my heart,” pro- 
tested George in the midst of the chorus of laughter. 
Mr. and Mrs. Houston came to the door of the tent 
to see what the uproar was all about. They stood 
laughing, too, when they saw their young guest’s 
predicament. 

“ I don’t think much of your bridge,” Isabel com- 
plained. “ Nor much of your skill as engineers. 
Meta and I could have done better ourselves.” 
There was a quiver of real anger in her voice, though 
she took pains to conceal it. 

“ We’re terribly sorry; really, we are,” apologized 
George. “ Don’t think you have to stand where 
you fell, Isabel. Permit me to conduct you to the 
shore.” He put out a strong hand, and helped 
Isabel to the bank on the side toward the village. 

“You aren’t mad, are you?” called Meta from 
her safe place in the meadow. 


122 Isabel Carleton in the West 

“ No, of course not.” Isabel tried to speak with 
good grace. “ But it isn’t very pleasant to be 
dumped into the water.” She was laughing, her- 
self, in spite of her vexation. 

“ And it’s an awful disappointment to take a 
plunge into the midst of Jordan’s rolling stream,” 
Meta agreed, “ and never get into the Promised 
Land.” 

“ We’ll see that she gets there, if she’ll give us 
another chance,” said Rodney. 

“ Some other day.” Isabel, with George’s assist- 
ance, had slopped to the shore, and now was wring- 
ing out her skirts. The merriment of the others 
rippled up again, and followed her as she toiled up 
the bank, her woolen skirt still heavy with water. 
Mrs. Houston consoled her, and made light of the 
event, so that Isabel was soon herself again. 

When she came back to the bank of the stream 
where the others were still working or conversing, 
Isabel was dry and amiable once more. 

“ You won’t hear the last of this,” predicted Rod- 
ney. “ It’ll be a good story to tell, when we get 
back to Jefferson.” 

“ You mean, I shan’t hear the last of it until I 
get into some other mess and make a joke of my- 
self,” Isabel smiled. “ Well, I promise to keep it 
up as long as I’m here. I might as well furnish 
amusement for the crowd.” 

“ We have to have something to tease you girls 
about,” said George. “ We didn’t dare say much 
about the bear, because you were so scared; and we 
don’t dare make fun of Meta about her cooking, 
because she gets so mad.” He glanced slyly over at 


Burned Macaroni 


123 

Meta, whose rising color proclaimed that he was 
right. 

“ Come, now, let’s all be as sweet and affable as 
dear little lambs,” said Rodney, who dreaded 
feminine peevishness. “ The afternoon is almost 
over, and we’ve worked hard enough. Let’s have a 
stone-skipping contest, and see who’s champion, and 
then we can shy stones at a bottle, and see who’ll 
win the laurels at that.” 

“ Highly intellectual diversions for a lot of col- 
lege people,” murmured Isabel. 

“ If anybody here is too intellectual for such diver- 
sions, she’ll have to prove it by better evidence than 
we’ve had,” Rodney answered dryly. 

“ That let’s me out,” cried Isabel. “ I’m game 
for the stone-skipping contest. Come on, George. 
We’ll be partners, and defeat our hated rivals, two 
to one.” 


CHAPTER VII 


FIREWORKS 


HE next day was the first Sunday at Camp. 



The party rose late, on the young men’s 
account, for they had risen early all the week. 
After breakfast, the six people gathered in the tent 
for Bible reading, in lieu of church services. Mrs. 
Houston handed the Bible to George Burnham. 
He took it with no protest and asked simply, “ What 
shall I read?” 

“ As you choose,” Mrs. Houston replied. 

“Then why not the Sermon on the Mount?” 
asked George. 

“ Just right,” said Mr. Houston heartily. 

George knew where to find it. He laid the Bible 
before him on the table, and read in a clear 
sonorous voice, his head bent seriously over the 
volume. 

Isabel sat on a couch, where she could look out 
through the inverted V of the tent door, to the 
mountains swimming in a bluish mist, fast dissipating 
as the morning advanced. She listened dreamily, 
wondering at the same time about the family at 
home, and vaguely .surprised at the melody and 
dignity of George’s reading. The stillness in the 
tent was emphasized by the gurgle of the rushing 
creek, and the shouts of the workmen who were 
amusing themselves in their own way. 


124 


Fireworks 


125 


Be ye therefore perfect/* George was reading, 
(How could any one be perfect? Isabel questioned.) 

Consider the lilies of the field,** (That means the 
clematis and forget-me-nots, too, thought Isabel.) 

Judge not, that ye he not judged.** (That was 
reasonable, of course.) Seek and ye shall find.** 
How beautiful it was — how sane and satisfying! 
Isabel resolved to read the Bible more, to read these 
same passages every day. She remembered that her 
mother did so. She herself had intended to read the 
Scriptures each day, but somehow she did not very 
often succeed. She remembered something about 
the “ cares of this world ” that “ choke the good 
seed.” And so her thoughts accompanied the read- 
ing to the last of the passage : For he taught them 

as one having authority, and not as the scribes.** 

George closed the book and leaned back in his 
chair. Isabel saw his eyes seek Meta’s with a look 
still absorbed in what he had read. The group sat 
silent for a moment, and then one by one they rose 
and went out. There was very little talk around 
the camp for the rest of the forenoon. George and 
Meta took a walk together up the valley road. 

After dinner Rodney said to Isabel, “ Mrs. 
Houston suggests that you and I ride up to the Big 
Indian and ask them to bring the two kids down for 
the fireworks, to-morrow night. What do you 
say? ” 

“ Oh, gracious! ” Isabel looked disturbed. “ I 
don’t know whether I dare to ride that far or not. 
I’ve been the clown of the party so much that it’s 
getting on my nerves.” She colored at the remem- 
brance of her undignified experiences. 


126 Isabel Carleton in the West 

“ Oh, don’t take yourself so seriously as that,” 
said the young man with a laugh. “ You’ll make it 
all right. All you have to do is to sit still and let 
your horse follow her nose.” 

“ We-ell,” said the girl. She was aching to get 
out into the mountains, and it would be pleasant to 
go with Rodney and without the rest of the family. 

“ When you’re tired, you can get off and rest,” 
suggested Rodney encouragingly. 

“ Oh, that would be worse than staying on. I’d 
never be able to mount again.” 

“ Want to try the trip, eh? ” Rodney’s voice was 
persuasive. “ You’ll get along all right. I won’t 
let anything happen to you.” 

“ M-m-m — ” said Isabel in a way that meant, 
“ I’ll try.” 

Rodney brought up the horses from the stable. 
Isabel was to ride Diana again. After a little 
chaffing from the crowd, Isabel managed to get into 
the saddle. Though she was still amazed at her 
elevation from the ground, and disconcerted at the 
motion of her steed, she was surprised to see how 
easily she controlled herself and how soon her fear 
melted away. After the first few minutes of appre- 
hension, she was almost at ease. The horse moved 
on with a steady swing; the road was a gradual 
ascent which the horses took at a swift walk. 

“ Comfortable and happy? ” Rodney asked at the 
end of the first mile. 

“ Never more so,” Isabel replied. 

“ Good news,” said Rodney in a relieved tone. 
“ I hoped you weren’t regretting it.” 

“ Not in the least. I’m glad I came.” 


Fireworks 


127 


“ It’s great, being here, isn’t it? ” 

“ It’s queer and beautiful. Isn’t it strange how 
things work out in ways that one never dreams of? ” 

“ Yes. I should think we’d learn after a while 
not to try to plan, but just let things work,” said 
Rodney with a thoughtful air. 

“ I don’t believe I could ever learn it. My mind 
is always leaping ahead for something that I want; 
and when I get it, it isn’t the same thing at all, but 
something entirely different.” 

“ Better, I hope.” 

“ Yes, it usually is.” 

They rode on for long spaces in silence, and then 
broke into desultory talk. With Rodney, Isabel 
never felt that she had to “ gabble,” just for sake 
of keeping up a conversation. That was one of the 
most delightful things about their long friendship. 

When they neared the mine, Isabel got into a 
panic about “ Jof-fer,” the bear. “ The horses 
would be terrified if he appeared, wouldn’t they?” 
she inquired. 

“ I don’t know.” Rodney wrinkled his forehead. 
“ These horses are pretty well trained, and I don’t 
think they’d do anything very shocking.” 

“ I’m scared. Rod,” said Isabel, somewhat 
ashamed of her weakness. She had visions of her 
horse dashing wildly into space, and of herself cling- 
ing to the mane, or else being thrown among the 
rocks. 

“ Keep cool. There’s nothing to worry about. 
I’ll take hold of Diana’s bridle, if that will console 
you any,” the young man replied. 

“ It would help a good deal.” 


128 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


No bear appeared, and Isabel breathed more 
freely as the riders stopped in front of the fore- 
man’s house. The two children ran out, shouting in 
chorus, “Oh, it’s Miss Carleton! ” 

Isabel was willing to be helped off the horse, for 
she was tired with the swaying and jolting. She 
caught the youngsters to her, and kissed them. 
“ I’m glad you haven’t forgotten me,” she cried. 

Mrs. Hurd came out with the baby in her arms, 
and welcomed the pair smilingly. “ It seems good 
to have a caller once in a while,” she said. “ And 
the children have done nothing but talk about you 
and the other ladies ever since that day you were 
here.” 

“ We’ve talked about them, too,” Isabel returned. 
“ Mrs. Houston and I have wished that we could 
have them in and teach them and play with them 
every day.” 

“ I wish you could,” the mother answered. 
“ They need it. But it’s a long way for them to 

go-” 

“ Too long, I suppose,” said Isabel. “ But any- 
how, we want them to come down and see the fire- 
works that we’re going to have to-morrow evening. 
Were you planning anything of that sort for them? ” 
“ Oh, whee 1 Fireworks 1 ” shouted Freddy. 
“ Oh, we can go, can’t we, mother? ” 

“ Oh, mother, do let us go,” begged Rose. “ We 
haven’t ever seen any except just those few at 
Auntie’s. Do say yes, mother! ” 

“ I guess their papa can take them down and 
back,” said. Mrs. Hurd doubtfully. “ But do come 
into the house, and we’ll talk about it.” 


Fireworks 


129 

Rodney led the horses aside to tether them, and 
then followed Isabel into the house. 

“ I suppose they’ll fall asleep,” Mrs. Hurd was 
saying, “ but they’d be terribly disappointed if I 
didn’t let them go.” 

‘‘We’ll have the fireworks as early as possible,” 
said Rodney, “ but of course they look better when 
it’s fairly dark.” 

“ Oh, mother, you aren’t going to say no, are 
you?” Rose and Freddy were hopping up and 
down. 

“ No; I’m not going to say no,” said their mother. 
She had put the baby into the perambulator, where 
it lay staring and kicking, to the great entertainment 
of Isabel, who loved babies. 

The two callers stayed for half an hour. Isabel 
had to talk with the children and hold the baby. 
Mrs. Hurd brought in ginger ale and cookies to re- 
fresh the travelers before they started back. Mr. 
Hurd was away, but would be back in the morning, 
and would bring the children down to the “ village,” 
unless something happened to prevent. 

With some effort, Isabel again mounted to Diana’s 
back. Then Rodney vaulted to his saddle, and the 
return journey was begun, not without a hasty look- 
out for Jof-fer. Nothing marred the pleasure of 
the trip, nor the joy of watching the changing lights 
on the mountains. 

“ You’re a seasoned equestrienne,” laughed Rod- 
ney, as the riders came to their own domain again. 

“ I feel as if I had ridden round the world,” Isabel 
responded. “ I’m tired enough to go to bed.” 

“ Next time you won’t feel the exertion so much. 


130 Isabel Carleton in the West 

We’ll have some gay little jaunts, as time goes on,” 
said Rodney. He helped Isabel to dismount, and 
she went triumphantly into the Ritz, to expound to 
Meta the success of this new attempt to ride Diana. 

The Fourth of July was the next day, Monday. 
Flags were hoisted early from the gables of the 
cabins, and a large one drooped over the door of 
the tent. The day was bright and warm, much as 
the other days had been; and the forenoon was busy 
with the usual labors at the work-camp and at the 
village. The Company for whom the young men 
were working had sent word that the men were to 
have a half day of leisure, in spite of the awkward- 
ness of a succession of holidays. 

Before luncheon Isabel had conferred privately 
with Meta. George and Rodney were having lunch 
with “ the family,” instead of at the mess-shack, and 
there were some especial dainties which Mrs. 
Houston had prepared. 

As soon as lunch was finished, Isabel announced, 
“ Meta’s going to give the Gettysburg speech to re- 
mind us what day it is.” 

Meta rose and stood in the open space beyond the 
table. In a rich, sympathetic voice she began, 
“ Four-score and seven years ago, — ” and went on 
to the end of that brief and vital statement of the 
principles of democracy. 

They all sat still for a moment, after Meta had 
ended with “ shall not perish from the earth.” 

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” said George. “It al- 
ways comes as a sort of surprise every time one 
hears it.” 


Fireworks 


131 

“ We need a Lincoln now,” commented Rodney. 

“ He was the greatest man that ever lived,” said 
Mr. Houston solemnly. “ No wonder we don’t see 
him repeated.” 

Isabel had had a tightening of the throat at the 
simple grandeur of the words and of the man who 
wrote them. “ I don’t think we half appreciate our 
country,” she cried chokingly. “ We aren’t grateful 
enough for the right to live in freedom and have a 
chance to develop our souls. If we had to live a 
while in some of the other countries, we shouldn’t 
take our benefits so much for granted.” 

“ That’s so,” supplemented George. “ We 
can’t imagine what it is to have to kow-tow to a 
Kaiser or yell for a Czar that we hate like poison. 
It must seem pretty good to some of those down- 
trodden Europeans to get over here.” 

“ Yes, but what enrages me,” said Meta wrath- 
fully, ‘‘ is the black ingratitude of a lot of them after 
they get here. They come just to get what they 
can out of us, and they haven’t the faintest idea 
what we stand for. Our grandfathers fought at 
Bunker Hill and froze at Valley Forge to save the 
ideals of democracy from destruction, and then a lot 
of Russian ‘ Reds ’ and German anarchists come over 
here, and want to snatch everything that they can, 
and destroy the very government that has given them 
the freedom to come and snatch!” She paused, 
breathless from her eloquence. 

“ They’re always howling about the sweatshops 
and the capitalists,” George went on while Meta 
took breath. “ Who is it that runs their blooming 
sweatshops? I’ll bet you you wouldn’t find one na- 


132 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


tive American if you went through them with a fine- 
toothed comb. It’s the immigrants’ own kind that 
grind them down, and then they want to blow up 
the government with dynamite because they suffer 
from conditions that they’ve made, themselves. 
And as for the capitalists. I’d like to see one of those 
yip-yapping Russians get hold of a half-million and 
see how much of it he’d want to share with the 
populace. What he didn’t spend for limousines and 
silk hats he’d hold onto like grim death. The place 
for any one who doesn’t like our government is back 
where he came from.” 

“ You couldn’t pry them out of America with a 
crow-bar,” exploded Rodney. “ What they want is 
to get all they can out of us with one hand, and stab 
us in the back with the other.” 

“ We’ve been too liberal in our immigration 
laws,” said Mr. Houston judicially. “ Now we 
ought to try to repair the damage by keeping out 
the riff-raff for a while, and giving ourselves a 
chance.” 

“ The reason we’ve let them in,” interposed Mrs. 
Houston, “ is that we have wanted them to do our 
manual labor. The native American won’t work 
with his hands. He thinks he’s too good for that.” 

“ And he usually is, too,” said Rodney. “ If he 
has intelligence, he ought to have a chance to use it.” 

“ Well, every man has his place,” answered Mrs. 
Houston placidly. “ But the place for aliens and 
traitors is not in America. We should teach the 
foreigners our ideals.” 

“ All very well, but hordes of them don’t want to 
learn,” said Meta passionately. 


Fireworks 


133 

“ Then they should be sent back where they like 
things better.” 

“ It makes me furious,” Isabel burst out, “ to have 
the Europeans always sneering about our being such 
a mercenary nation. You never see anybody pinch 
the pennies here as they do over there. As a matter 
of fact we’re the most generous and idealistic nation 
in the world.” 

“ Our idealism hasn’t helped them out much in the 
present situation,” said Mr. Houston dryly. 

“ But it will,” prophesied George. “ We’ll get 
into it. We’ll have to. And then they’ll see what 
idealism plus brawn and brains can do.” 

“ If they can hang on long enough so that there’s 
anything to fight for when we get in,” remarked Mr. 
Houston. 

“ Oh, dear, we’re spoiling our lovely day by war- 
talk,” complained Isabel. 

“ I don’t know how it could be better spent.” 
Mr. Houston gave her a keen glance from his dark 
eyes. 

Isabel felt reproved. “ I suppose not,” she said 
hastily. “ Do you belong to the Daughters of the 
Revolution, Mrs. Houston? ” she asked. 

Yes, I’ve belonged for a good while. I have a 
pin somewhere about.” 

“ I want to join when I get older,” said Isabel. 
“ My great-grandfather Carleton was — ” 

“ If you’re going to swap ancestor stories, we’ll 
find something else to do,” Rodney interrupted with 
a laugh. He had as gallant ancestors as anybody, 
but saw no reason for talking about them. 

Everybody rose from the table. Mrs. Houston 


134 Isabel Carleton in the West 

and Isabel swapped ancestor stories while they 
cleared away the lunch dishes. “ You go on and 
practice your voice exercises while we wash the 
dishes,” said Isabel to Meta. “ You haven’t done 
your exercises to-day. And thank you for the 
Gettysburg speech. We got so excited over the im- 
migrants that we forgot to be polite.” 

“ Don’t mention it,” called Meta over her 
shoulder. She was on her way to the secluded 
spot in the ravine, where she practiced her exercises 
in voice control. 

Some time after, as Isabel stepped out on the flat 
space in front of the tent, she saw George, who had 
been reading a magazine, start up and stare out into 
the mouth of the ravine with a look of anxiety. 

“ What is it? ” asked Isabel in a surprised tone. 

“ I just saw one of the workmen slinking along 
out there with a gun,” George answered quickly. 
“ I wonder what he’s up to? ” 

“ Perhaps he’s seen a coyote,” ventured Isabel. 

“ They don’t come so near the camp. I don’t 
like the looks of it.” 

“ He wouldn’t — ” Isabel took alarm from the 
expression on George’s face. 

“ Let’s go and see.” 

With one accord, they leaped down the sloping 
hillside, and hurried toward the narrower cut of the 
ravine. Meta’s voice floated out rather faintly, for 
she was at some distance away. They could catch 
the words, “ I am — ” and the rest faded into an 
echo. 

“Where’s that Greaser gone to?” murmured 
George. “ Ah, there he is ! ” 


Fireworks 


135 


The man, a rough dark Mexican, stepped out from 
behind a clump of junipers, where he had been 
crouching. He was so intent on himself that he had 
not noticed George and Isabel. His face was wild, 
and he was clutching his gun feverishly. 

“ Hey, Joaquin, what you doing with that gun? ’’ 
called George in a voice which was studiedly under 
control. 

The man started and gasped. “ Ah, Senor, el 
espectro!^^ he replied, — “the speerit.” He lifted 
his free hand. “ Oye! 

A voice repeated slowly and mournfully the line 
from “ Hamlet,” “ I am thy father^ s spirit/^ Again 
it came, with a different intonation. 

“ Ha ! the speer-it,” Joaquin muttered, while a 
look of awe settled on his face. “ I keel him. See 
— la carahina! I keel I ” 

He started forward. George rushed to him and 
laid a hand upon his arm. “ No, no,” he said 
sternly. “ Wait. Give me the gun.” 

He took the gun from the resisting hand of the 
workman. Then “ Meta ! ” called George in a loud, 
peremptory tone. “ Meta, come here quickly.” 

The voice stopped, and was followed by the sound 
of footsteps on the gravel. Joaquin stood quaking, 
half persuaded to run. 

Meta, very calm and trim, in a white blouse and 
pique skirt, came into view. She walked forward, 
looking surprised to see the group, — George holding 
the gun and detaining Joaquin, Isabel clasping her 
hands in terror and suspense. 

“What’s the matter?” asked Meta, surveying 
the trio. 


136 Isabel Carleton in the West 

“ There’s your spirit,” said George to Joaquin — 
La Sehorita — Sehorita Houston.” 

La hija de Sehor Houston*^ stammered Isabel, 
who knew only a few words of Spanish. No es- 
pectro — no spirit.” 

Meta came closer, frowning with perplexity. 
“What is it all about?” she queried. 

“ Joaquin, here, got a wrong idea into his head,” 
George explained. “ Come, Joaquin, take hold of 
her hand. Let him touch you, Meta.” 

The man shrank away, partly with fear, and 
partly with horror at his own mistake. Meta held 
out a strong white hand. The workman touched it 
hesitatingly with his hard dirty fingers. Then he 
burst into frenzied explanations, apologies, and pro- 
testations in mixed English and Spanish. The 
words pardon, Sehorita, I mistake — / sorr-ree 
stood out now and then in the avalanche of unintel- 
ligible phrases. 

Isabel was pale. “ Oh, Meta ! he thought you 
were a ghost — a spirit. Don’t you remember 
George’s telling us at the table that some one of 
the workmen had asked the meaning of speer-itf 
He had heard you saying over and over, ^ I am thy 
father^s spirit/ He was terrified. He was going 
to — ” She motioned toward the gun. 

Meta retained her self-possession. “ Oh, I don’t 
believe he would have done anything,” she said 
coolly. “ He would have found out his mistake.” 

“ I hope so,” said Isabel doubtfully. 

Joaquin was going on with his apologies and ges- 
ticulations. 

“ There, there, it’s all right, old man,” said 


Fireworks 


137 


George soothingly. “ Don’t take it so hard. 
Your arms’ll drop off if you aren’t careful, and you’ll 
have to use the shovel with your teeth.” His jocu- 
lar tone reassured the man, who subsided into a less 
excited volley of excuses. 

‘‘ We got him in time, anyhow, Meta,” George 
went on, looking at the tall beautiful girl with eyes 
that said more than his lips. Isabel saw that his 
hands were unsteady, now that the danger was over. 
“ If I hadn’t spotted him — ” 

“ I’m glad you did,” Meta remarked. When she 
was most moved, she said the least. 

“ Go on back, Joaquin,” said George. “ It’s all 
right. But don’t try it again.” 

Non otra vez” admonished Isabel stumblingly. 

The man shook his head vehemently. Non otra 
vezF he repeated. 

“ I suppose that’s Greaser for ‘ Never again I ’ ” 
George smiled. 

Isabel turned toward the house. She felt that 
George and Meta wanted to be together. Back at 
the house, she privately related the episode to Mrs. 
Houston, who, with her usual good sense, took the 
matter calmly, — grateful that no harm had come 
from the superstitious folly of the Mexican. 

Later, looking out from the tent door, Isabel saw 
Rodney at work at the bridge, reinforcing and im- 
proving it. She wandered down, and watched while 
he worked, saying nothing about the incident of the 
“ speer-it.” Rodney was hard at work construct- 
ing a small hand-rail at the side of the narrow foot- 
bridge. 

The conversation of the two young people was 


138 Isabel Garleton in the West 

desultory, and broken by long pauses. It’s aw- 
fully nice of you not to say anything jeering about 
my fall and floundering,” said Isabel when the hand- 
rail was completed. 

“ Let bygones be bygones,” Rodney replied. “ I 
don’t believe in keeping a thing up too long. Now, 
do you want to go over to the other side? I’m go- 
ing to make a stone fireplace for boiling the coffee 
at our picnic to-night. You may help if you like.” 

“Dee-lighted!” Isabel made her way lightly 
across the bridge with a smile for the remembrance 
of her tumble. 

“ The Promised Land ” was one of those small 
unexpected meadows which one finds among the 
Western mountains — an acre or so of fresh green 
grass surrounded by the sterner slope of rocky hill- 
side. 

“ It’s worth some effort in getting here, isn’t it? ” 
said the young man. 

“ Oh, it’s lovely. I wish I knew a better word,” 
Isabel responded. “ The grass is full of white vio- 
lets — the exquisite things! ” She knelt to pluck a 
few of the small purple-veined white flowers which 
starred the green. She could hardly leave them even 
for the fascinating task of constructing the fireplace. 
Rodney was extremely skillful in the art of provid- 
ing an out-of-door fire; he had learned it in many 
outings in the forests of the Middle West. 

When the primitive stove had been finished and 
the rubbish cleared away, Rodney said, “ Let’s walk 
down and take a look at the weir on this side of the 
creek. You’ve hardly seen it. Of course it’s just 
in the early stages as yet.” The women of the party 


Fireworks 


139 

had been advised to keep away from the workmen’s 
camp and the active operations of building. 

“ I’d like to see it at close range,” said Isabel. 

They walked down the bank of the creek for some 
little distance, until they came to the place which the 
young men had selected for their work. Here they 
saw the posts and markers which had been driven in, 
and the foundation of concrete blocks. Across the 
stream were the trough for mixing the concrete, the 
rough timbers for the frame, and other signs of the 
heavy labor which was involved. Rodney explained 
to Isabel the way in which the weir would work when 
it was completed, to measure the pressure of the 
mountain stream, and the water-power which it 
could supply. 

“ Some one has to stay and watch it and take the 
records for a long time, — months perhaps,” he said. 
“ But our job is only to get the thing done, with all 
the measurements accurate and everything in good 
shape. We’re to stay and look after the records for 
a week or two, and I’m glad of that, for it makes 
our time here a little longer.” 

“ It looks mysterious to me,” said Isabel. “ But 
of course I don’t know anything about that sort of 
work.” She listened and stared as intelligently as 
she could while Rodney went through his explana- 
tions. “ It’ll be awfully solid, won’t it,” she re- 
marked, “ when you get all the concrete in place? ” 

“ It ought to be as solid as the rocks,” Rodney 
answered with some complacence. “ We’re build- 
ing as if it were for all time.” 

“ I’m glad it’s coming out so well,” said Isabel 
happily. “ And, oh, goodness ! I must go and 


140 Isabel Carleton in the West 

help get the picnic supper ready. We were all go- 
ing to assist, and then no one would be burdened.” 

She found Meta and Mrs. Houston making sand- 
wiches of several sorts. Isabel busied herself with 
the salad. Mr. Houston, who had been reading 
and playing solitaire, came to carry the things down 
the hill and across the stream. George also turned 
up with offers of assistance. 

As the shadows grew longer in the valley, the fam- 
ily gathered about the white cloth spread upon the 
grass. Rodney came in for a considerable amount 
of praise for the hand-rail which he had made, for 
the stone fireplace, and the strong hot coffee. 

“ A picnic is the nicest sort of meal there is,” 
said Isabel, after every one was well started. 
“ When I’m at one, I always wonder why we don’t 
eat in this way all the time.” 

“ Perhaps the pleasure might wear off,” said Mr. 
Houston. “ But I’m keen for them myself. I wish 
we could have them often.” 

“ We can, now that the bridge is built across Jor- 
dan,” said Meta. 

The meal was eaten with enjoyment in the midst 
of easy conversation and the sense of expansion 
which a free horizon gives. 

“ We’ve always had so many picnics in Jefferson 
that it seems glorious to bring them with us out 
here,” persisted Isabel, who was in a state of exalta- 
tion. 

“ Jefferson seems mighty far away,” Rodney re- 
marked. “ The point of view is so different out 
here.” 

They fell to talking of those whom they had 


FirenjDorks 


141 

known at Jefferson: Evelyn Taylor, who had mar- 
ried Fred Delafield (they were living in Portland, 
and Isabel hoped to visit them if she went to Seat- 
tle) ; and lola Fleming, the poetess, who was looking 
forward to a career, now that she had been gradu- 
ated from college; and Herbert Barry, who had gone 
to France in the early winter, to serve in the Ameri- 
can Ambulance work. 

Rodney had had a letter from Herbert. “ It’s 
a strange letter,” he said, — “ full of reticences 
where one wants long accounts of thrilling adven- 
tures, and eloquent over the probabilities of Amer- 
ica’s entering the war. One would rather not read 
those parts.” 

“ It’s a beautiful letter,” exclaimed Isabel. 
“ Herbert puts everything so simply, and yet it has 
such a lot of emotion behind it. I never knew he 
could write so well — prose, I mean.” 

“ I think Herb has a future,” added Rodney. 

“ Isn’t it splendid that those four poems of his 
have been published in the magazines I ” cried Meta, 
who admired achievement of every sort. “ I know 
he could get a lot more published if he tried.” 

“ You know he says he hasn’t time to bother with 
verse,” Rodney answered. “ He never puts it on 
paper now, unless it comes to him at a time when he 
is free, which isn’t once in a blue moon, I judge.” 

“ Living is a thousand times more important than 
writing, anyhow,” said George who was not of a 
particularly literary turn of mind. 

“ At least one hasn’t much to say in writing until 
he’s done a good deal of living,” Isabel meditated. 
“ I see that now, but it’s not long since I didn’t.” 


142 Isabel Carleton in the West 

“ And it’s usually only the discipline of living that 
makes one willing to sit down and toil over a book,” 
said Mrs. Houston. “ Writing a book is a tedious 
task at the best. I know, because I have a friend 
who writes, and she is always wishing that some one 
would invent a self-writing novel.” 

“ Then we’d all be authors of best-sellers,” 
laughed Meta,^ beginning on another sandwich. 
“ Even Dad, here, the Silent Listener, would be 
grinding them out.” 

“ I’ve often wished that I could write what I’ve 
seen,” returned Mr. Houston, seriously. “ In my 
travels and adventures in lumber camps and mining 
towns, in the States and British Columbia and 
Alaska, I’ve run across many a strange story — ro- 
mantic and picturesque things that it seems one could 
never invent in the world.” 

“Why don’t you try writing them?” inquired 
Isabel eagerly. It seemed a pity for good copy to 
go to waste. “ Perhaps you’re a literary genius 
without knowing it.” 

“ Afraid not.” Mr. Houston shook his head. 
“ Business Is more in my line. May I have another 
cup of coffee ? ” 

“Why don’t you try it, Gilbert?” asked Mrs. 
Houston. 

“ The coffee? I’ve had one cup, and it’s not bad, 
not bad at all.” Mr. Houston looked Innocent. 

“ You know what I mean — writing your stories 
of the Northwest. I’ve heard that there is a con- 
stant demand for that sort of thing.” 

“ I’m too lazy when I’m not busy, and too busy 


Fireworks 


143 

when I’m not lazy.” Mr. Houston sweetened his 
coffee deliberately. 

“ That’s the trouble with a good many geniuses 
in the literary lines, I suppose,” said George. 

“ I’ll prod you on,” promised Mrs. Houston. 

“ I will, too,” said Meta. 

“ Too much prodding makes even a mule obsti- 
nate. I might possibly try my skill as a Stewart 
Edward White or a Rex Beach If you two let me 
alone; but I am sure I should never do anything if 
you kept nagging me.” A smile glinted in Mr. 
Houston’s eye, as he glanced at his wife and daugh- 
ter. 

“ Then we’ll plead speechlessly,” his wife re- 
turned. “ We’ll find a way.” 

“ We all ought to get Inspiration out of this sum- 
mer for whatever we’re going to do,” Isabel re- 
marked. “ I don’t doubt that we’ll be feeling the 
influence of it twenty years from now.” 

“ We ought to remember this salad,” said Meta, 
who thought that last remark rather too sentimental. 
“ You always make good ones, Isabel, but this is 
extra-fine.” 

“ Nothing tastes so good In-doors as it does out in 
the open,” said the salad-maker modestly. 

They finished the meal with leisurely banter. 
“ The children ought to be coming soon,” said Mrs. 
Houston. She and the girls were gathering up the 
dishes, while the men went to lay out the fireworks 
and make preparations for setting them off. 

Soon a distant sound of horses’ hoofs vibrated in 
the still air. “ There they come! ” cried Isabel. 


144 Isabel Carleton in the West 

The three women hurried across the bridge to 
meet their little guests. Mr. Hurd and his assist- 
ant had brought the two youngsters on horseback. 
Each man held one of the children in front of him 
in the saddle. 

Rose and Freddy were wide-eyed with interest 
at the sight of the village, with the three cabins and 
the tent, with the out-door table, and various camp- 
stools and rugs scattered about. “ It’s almost like 
Indians, isn’t it? ” said Rose shyly. 

“Do we look like Indians?” teased Isabel. 
“ Do we wear moccasins, and have our hair tied up 
with red rags? ” 

“ No, you look just like real people, and your hair 
is awful pretty — everybody’s.” Rose looked from 
Isabel’s bright hair to Meta’s dark braids, and then 
to Mrs. Houston’s soft brown coronet. 

“ That’s the way to win our hearts,” said Meta, 
who was never quite at ease with children. She had 
never had much opportunity to be with them. 

“Where’s the fireworks?” asked Freddy in an 
awed tone. “ Are they In that tent? ” 

“ They’re going to be right up there on that flat 
place across the ravine,” explained Isabel. She was 
cuddling Rose up to her hungrily, and thinking of 
little sister Celia at home In Jefferson. 

George Burnham and Mr. Houston had set up a 
rough framework for the pin-wheels and Roman can- 
dles. “ The audience is to sit out here in the front 
yard,” announced George, “ and it is expected to ap- 
plaud wildly at anything that pleases it.” 

“We ought to wear mittens, then, for we’ll be 
clapping our hands till they’re calloused,” said Isa- 


Fireworks 


145 

bel. “ We’re going to be particularly pleased at 
everything.” 

They all settled themselves on chairs and cushions 
and rugs. Freddy sat between his father and Mrs. 
Houston, uncertain which one he wanted most to be 
with. “Did you say you had seen fireworks?” 
asked Mrs. Houston. 

“ We have fire-crackers every Fourth,” said Rose, 
“ and at Auntie’s we saw some of those things that 
go whiz-z-z and spout right up into the sky, like a 
great big bouquet of stars.” 

“ And then they all go out, and the sky is dark 
again,” Freddy added, in an explanatory tone. 

“ That’s just the kind that we’re going to have to- 
night,” said Isabel, — “ great big bouquets of stars.” 

The sky was turning to cold blue, and the real 
stars were appearing faintly over the mountain 
peaks. In the valleys, heavy shadows had fallen, 
and a white mist was rising over the Promised Land. 

There was a bit of impatience among the audi- 
ence when a readjustment of the framework was 
found necessary. In the meantime, the workmen 
from the camp below had gathered at some distance 
but where they could obtain a good view of the go- 
ings-on. 

“ Now get ready,” called George from across the 
shallow ravine. Rose clasped Isabel’s hand and sat 
breathless. 

With a crescendo whoos-s-h, a Roman candle 
sprang into the air, scattering its colored lights pro- 
fusely above the stream, where they stood reflected 
for a moment and then died out. 

“ How beautiful! ” A murmur circulated among 


146 Isabel Carleton in the West 

the spectators. Rose tightened her clasp of Isabel’s 
hand without a word. 

More candles sputtered and blazed against the 
darkening background of the hills. They threw out 
great green and yellow bubbles which, one by one, 
faltered in the air, and sank toward the earth, fad- 
ing before they reached it. The spectators clapped 
joyfully as each particular candle had its fleeting 
space of beauty before it passed away. 

“ When will they have the big, big spouting 
ones? ” inquired Freddy eagerly. 

“ Right now,” Isabel rejoined. 

As if in response to their hope, a splendid rocket 
rose majestically into the dusk, spraying fountains 
of light. Gazing at its exquisite stars and flecks of 
flame, the groups upon the banks burst into exclama- 
tions. 

Rose quivered. “It’s like fairyland, isn’t it?” 
she whispered into Isabel’s ear. 

“ It’s like fairyland and dreamland, and every- 
thing lovely,” Isabel whispered in return. “ And 
aren’t we glad we’re here? ” 

“ Mm-huh! I’m so glad you asked me ! ” 

Isabel curled her arm closer around the child, and 
gave herself up to the rich enjoyment of the hour, — 
the hush of the evening, the beauty of the peaks, 
the ever-recurring wonder of the colored lights, the 
warm companionship of friends and little children. 
She was very happy, with the unquestioning content- 
ment which does not look into the future, but takes 
the good at hand and draws it to oneself. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE CLOUD-BURST 

A NOTHER week slipped away, filled with the 
self-appointed tasks of the “ lily-fingered loun- 
gers,” as George unjustly called the freer individuals 
of the party; and with the steady labors of the engi- 
neers and their crew. The weather was for the 
most part clear, with warm days and cool evenings. 
The villagers spent much of their time out of doors, 
riding up and down the valley on horseback, climb- 
ing about the hills, or sitting on the bank of the 
stream with books or sewing. Twice there were 
picnics in the Promised Land. Once during the 
week the Hurd children were brought down from 
the Big Indian to spend the afternoon with their 
new friends. On Thursday, Mr. Houston found 
that pressing business demanded his leaving at once, 
and he departed hurriedly for a trip the length of 
which he could not predict. 

The work on the weir had now progressed to a 
stage which promised completion within a short time. 
The spirits of the two young men rose as the days 
flew by and their activities went on without serious 
obstacle. The workmen remained tractable, though 
still mysterious and fiery. They seemed to be well 
under control, and to work with some degree of in- 
147 


148 Isabel Carleton in the West 

dustry in spite of the fact that they had to be con- 
stantly watched and urged. The “ pumphandle 
method ” of talk proved various and effective. 

Sunday came again, with its relief from the labors 
of the week. After dinner, Rodney said to Isabel, 
“ What do you say to our exploring the region on 
the other side of the Promised Land? We haven’t 
any of us gone beyond the farther edge of the 
meadow.” 

“ I’d like to, tremendously,” Isabel answered, 
pleased at the prospect of new adventures. 

“Are you good for it?” asked Rodney. “It’s 
quite a tramp and climb. I don’t want you to get 
so tired that you won’t enjoy it.” 

“ I think I’m good for it,” Isabel replied. “ You 
know I’m a pretty good walker, and I’m getting aw- 
fully hard with all this exercise every day. I’ll 
promise to be game.” 

“ All right. See that you haven’t any chiffons on 
that will spoil.” He looked disapprovingly at her 
pale green chambray dress trimmed with white em- 
broidery. “ That’s pretty, but it won’t do.” 

“ Goodness, this washes just like anything,” Isa- 
bel smiled. “ But I’ll go and put on something 
more to the taste of the ‘ personal conductor.’ ” 
She went to change into more suitable clothing, and 
to tell Mrs. Houston that she and Rodney were 
going for a walk. “ That’s all right, isn’t it? ” she 
asked. 

“ Perfectly,” said Mrs. Houston, looking up from 
the letter which she was writing. “ Rodney will 
take care of you. But don’t go too far, and be sure 
to get back by supper-time. Don’t you think it 


The Cloud-Burst 


149 

would be nice to take a sandwich? It would refresh 
you after your tramp, before you start back.” 

“ I’ll take one apiece,” said Isabel, “ but we aren’t 
going to be gone very long, I think.” 

She went into the kitchen and made two substan- 
tial chicken sandwiches, which she wrapped in oiled 
paper and tied into a neat parcel. “ Here, Rod, put 
this into your coat pocket,” she said, as the two 
young people started on their jaunt, which was to 
prove more strenuous than they anticipated. 

The hot sun was pouring down into the valley, 
and there was a drowsiness in the atmosphere, heav- 
ier and more oppressive than usual, even at this time 
of day. 

Isabel and Rodney crossed the bridge, with a 
smile for the remembrance of its history. “ It’s a 
good solid bridge, now,” remarked Rodney. “ It 
will be here forty years from now, when we have a 
reunion out here.” 

“ Yes, when we all come out in private cars — or 
will it be private aeroplanes, then? — with children 
and grandchildren and maids and valets and pri- 
vate secretaries,” bubbled Isabel, amused at the 
thought. 

“ George and I will be fat old burghers with our 
pockets full of gold,” prophesied Rodney. “ And 
we’ll point out to the grandchildren that it was here 
that we made our start in life — fought our way to 
fortune and renown.” 

“ And then I suppose you’ll say solemnly to them, 
‘ Go thou and do likewise,’ ” suggested Isabel. 

“ More likely they’ll be spending the money that 
we earned with honest toil,” Rodney answered. 


150 Isabel Carleton in the West 

“ But say! isn’t it fine to be walking on a carpet of 
violets? ” 

“ I hate to walk on them, but there’s nowhere else 
to step,” said Isabel, watching her heavy shoes sink 
into the flowery grass. “ But there isn’t very much 
of this. We’ll soon have the rocks and gravel 
again.” 

They followed the edge of the grass, and then 
stepped out upon a slope which was covered with the 
thick bunches of forget-me-nots which flourished on 
so many sandy hillsides. Isabel could hardly pass 
the flowers, for each tuft seemed more wonderfully 
perfect than the last. After a while the forget-me- 
nots gave way to scanty dry grass and juniper bushes, 
with a little sage and cactus. And then the travel- 
ers found themselves among small scrub-oaks and 
scraggy pines. 

“ It’s a real forest that we’re coming to,” said 
Isabel, stopping to look up the long slant of the 
mountain side. “ I never realized, just looking at it 
from the door of the Ritz, that the trees were so 
high and so thick.” 

“ One is often deceived here in the mountains, if 
he judges by the way things look,” answered her 
companion. “ Here’s quite a stiff climb, for a min- 
ute or two. Want any help? ” 

“ Oh, no, I can make it.” Isabel scrambled up 
the steep short ascent which led to a more gradual 
slope. They were now among pines, growing stur- 
dily out of a rocky soil and between large bowlders 
and piles of stones. 

“ It’s worse going than I thought,” said Rodney. 
“ Rest a few minutes.” 


The Cloud-Burst 


151 

They sat on a rock and took breath for a moment. 
“ How dark it is here in the woods,” said Isabel. 

“ Clouding up a little, too, I guess,” said Rod- 
ney carelessly. 

They clambered on, until they reached a point 
above the stretch of pines, and came out upon a ledge 
which overlooked the slope up which they had come. 
In spite of their being accustomed to exertion, they 
were both breathing hard with the effort of the 
climb. Here they stood, with the pine-covered hill- 
side below them, then the more open spaces, then the 
yellow-green of the little meadow, with the stream 
and the three cabins still farther on. 

They had not had time for more than a glance 
before the gloom of the sky arrested them. “ Oh, 
see,” cried Isabel. “ Those great black clouds are 
pouring over the mountain tops, from the west. 
How threatening they look! ” 

The eastern half of the sky was rapidly succumb- 
ing to the onrush of dark clouds, which were rolling 
across the world. 

“ It looks as if we were in for a pretty bad storm,” 
said Rodney, much disturbed. “ We must get un- 
der cover somewhere. I don’t want you to be 
drenched.” 

They glanced around and behind them, to where 
the mountain side still ascended. “ Maybe there’s 
some nook up there,” Isabel murmured vaguely. 
She was not keen for being out in the sort of storm 
which she suspected to be coming. 

“ Wait here. I’ll see what there is.” Rodney 
scrambled up the back of the ledge and made his way 
farther up among the rocks. 


i^Z Isabel Carleton in the West 

Isabel turned to look once more over the valley, 
fast darkening under the lowering heavens. A roll 
of thunder sounded along the farther hills; another 
quickly followed. 

Rodney called to her from above. “ I’ve found 
a place. Can you come up ? ” 

Isabel started up the acclivity, and Rodney came 
to meet her, giving her his hand for the last few 
steps. She shuddered under the gloom of the gray 
mountains, from which all brightness had fled away. 

“ Here,” said Rodney briefly. 

Isabel saw an overhanging cliff, of solid rock, 
with a shadowy space of shelter underneath. “ No 
snakes, I hope,” she said warily, peering into the 
nook. 

“No knowing. I don’t see any.” Rodney went 
into the shallow recess and scuffled about. “ It’s all 
right,” he reassured the girl. “ Nothing here but 
grass and pine needles and oak leaves.” Isabel 
went in. It was a crude shelter, but effective. “ If 
the wind doesn’t get around directly in front of us, 
we’re all right,” Rodney went on cheerfully. 

“ I hope it won’t. I’m not particularly anxious 
to get soaked. But we have a reserved seat for the 
drama, haven’t we?” she conceded, willing to get 
what consolation she could from the unpleasant pre- 
dicament. 

“ A box seat at that,” answered Rodney. He 
looked troubled. 

The thunder had grown almost continuous, and 
thin flashes of lightning vivified the dark sky. 

“ Look I the cabins are almost gone,” said Isabel, 


The Cloud-Burst 


153 


straining her gaze across the valley, where the “ vil- 
lage ” was being swallowed up in shadow. “ I sup- 
pose the rest of the crowd have snuggled up in the 
Ritz and started a fire on the hearth. And they’re 
wondering where we are. I should have told Mrs. 
Houston just where we were going.” 

“ Too bad. I hope they won’t worry. There 
‘isn’t a thing they can do. And we are really all 
right,” Rodney added, as if to keep up the spirits 
of the other. 

Isabel jumped as a wilder flash of lightning tore 
across the clouds. The thunder had now become 
tumultuous, roaring from peak to peak, and rever- 
berating down the valleys. Rain began to fall; first 
in big scattered drops, and then in a pelting down- 
pour. 

“ It’s a real old-fashioned summer-afternoon thun- 
der storm,” cried Isabel above the rush of rain. 

She and Rodney shrank back against the wall of 
their shelter, abashed at the sense of isolation and 
powerlessness which had come over them. They 
could see a bit of the sky, with the blur of water 
streaming down in thick sheets, which wiped out all 
the solid ground beneath. 

“ There seems to be nothing in the world but this 
dry rock and the downfall of the rain.” Rodney 
raised his voice to make himself heard. A torrent 
was running off the edge of the cliff under which they 
cowered, sweeping with it a little avalanche of sticks, 
pebbles, and grass, mixed with white foam. The 
water spattered under the edge of their nook, but 
did not come back to where they were standing. 


154 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


Isabel put her hands over her face. It seemed as 
if the world were full of wild noises, clashings and 
roarings and reechoings of terror. 

Rodney bethought himself to put his coat on the 
ground. He motioned to Isabel to sit on it; the 
uproar was so great that it seemed as useless to 
speak as it had seemed in the stamp-mill at the Big 
Indian. Isabel sat down and covered her eyes 
again, but Rodney stood staring straight into the 
torrents outside. 

“ It’s a great sight, Isabel,” he shouted. “ You 
shouldn’t miss it.” 

The girl took her hands away from her eyes. 
“ Ugh, it’s terrible,” she groaned, as she watched 
the snakelike writhings of the lightning and the 
savage thrusts of electric spears into the valley. 

A long time the marooned pleasure-seekers held 
their positions. They felt as if the concentrated 
storms of all the ages were sweeping over them. 
“ It’s a cloud-burst, I believe,” said Rodney. “ I 
don’t know what time we’ll get home,” he grumbled, 
looking at his wrist-watch. 

“ Home is a very attractive word just now,” an- 
swered Isabel. To her the three little cabins across 
the river were a perfect center of shelter and pro- 
tection and friendliness. An endless time they sat 
waiting for the storm to slacken. Rodney reached 
for the parcel of sandwiches, which he had placed 
on a projecting bit of rock, and handed it to Isabel. 
She unrolled it, and divided the slight repast be- 
tween them. They sat munching and meditating, 
but not trying to say much. “ I wish I’d put in 
more,” said Isabel, when the last crumb was gone. 


The Cloud-Burst 


155 


“ I wish I had a drink of water,” said Rodney. 

There had come a cessation in the noise and down- 
pour. In the comparative quiet, the two young peo- 
ple were aware of the presence of some one else. 
There was a noise of something moving in the ex- 
tension of the shelter, beyond a curve in the cliff. 
Isabel thought of a bear, and her heart nearly 
stopped beating. But at that moment a head poked 
itself around the edge of the cliff from the regions 
under the rocks, which the wanderers had not had 
time to explore. 

Isabel was almost as startled as if a bear had 
really appeared. Rodney sprang up in a defensive 
attitude. The head had a hat on it, and beneath the 
hat were two twinkling eyes and a bushy gray beard. 
“ Excuse me,” said the head, “ I didn’t know who 
was sharing my diggings.” The man to whom the 
head belonged came around the edge of the cliff, 
shrinking against the rock to keep from being 
splashed by the rain. He was an elderly person, 
dressed roughly in a nondescript costume. “ Don’t 
be scared,” he went on earnestly. “ I’m a harmless 
fellow. I would have made myself known sooner, 
but I guess I was asleep.” 

“You must be a good sleeper,” said Rodney, “ to 
be able to get a wink in this din.” 

“ Maybe he’s Rip Van Winkle himself,” thought 
Isabel. She said as easily as she could, “ Have you 
been asleep for twenty years? ” 

“ No, I’m not Rip,” the old man chuckled, enjoy- 
ing the joke. “ My name is Hale, Matthew Hale. 
I suppose you’re wonderin’ where I turned up from. 
Well, I was prospectin’ around this place — I know 


1^6 Isabel Carleton in the West 

this region well — and when I saw the storm cornin’ 
on, I just crawled into this dry place under these 
rocks and went to sleep. I’m used to these here up- 
roars. They don’t make much impression on me.” 

“ But this was a dreadful storm,” said Isabel. 
“ It is yet, for that matter, though it has calmed 
down a little.” 

“ A cloud-burst up the valley, I reckon,” said the 
old man casually. “ Don’t you want to take a look 
into my flat? ” 

The others craned their necks around the edge of 
the rocks, and saw that the nook in which Hale had 
been sleeping was really deeper and better than their 
own. 

“ It’s goin’ to clear,” said the old man. “ I don’t 
believe we’ll have to stay here forever. How did 
you two youngsters happen to be caught in this par- 
tic’lar spot? ” 

Isabel smiled at Rodney’s being called a young- 
ster. She didn’t mind, herself. “ We started out 
for a climb up the mountain side,” Rodney ex- 
plained. “ We’re camping on the other side of the 
creek, across the valley, there. You can’t see the 
place for the rain.” 

“ Oh, ho ! In them three cabins next to the little 
ravine? ” asked the old man with interest. ” Hm, 
is that so? I know ’em well. Camped in ’em my- 
self, — my two partners and me.” 

The others looked at him in astonishment. 
“ Did you, really? ” answered Isabel. 

“ Yes, I know all about ’em,” Hale went on. 
“ Now in the middle one — ” 

“ The Ritz,” murmured the girl. 


The Cloud-Burst 


157 


“ Eh? Well, in the middle one there’s a fireplace 
that ain’t exactly in the center, and there’s a kind of 
little cupboard cut into the logs at the right. Isn’t 
that so, young lady? ” 

“ You really have been in it,” Isabel smiled. 
“ I’m living in it myself, now, and I certainly am en- 
joying it.” 

“ I suppose you’re a prospector,” said Rodney, 
drawing the old man out. 

“ Yes, I’ve been lookin’ for gold amongst these 
hills for years. Sometimes I go as far south as 
Wyoming, and sometimes as far north as Alasky. 
But mostly I circulate around here.” 

“ I had an idea that sort of thing was over,” Rod- 
ney said — “ that the time had gone by when the real 
individual prospector existed, except in books.” 

“ Oh, no, fer from it.” The old man twisted his 
face into a wry smile. “ Of course there ain’t as 
many as there used to be of us; but there’s just as 
much gold in these mountains as ever was taken out. 
The thing is to find it, and somebody’ll keep huntin’ 
it as long as it’s here.” 

“ I don’t see why they shouldn’t,” said Rodney 
politely. 

The storm had now slackened into an ordinary 
downfall of rain, which, however, seemed very re- 
luctant to stop. It would almost die away, and then 
begin again, when the group under the rocks were 
ready to venture forth. The afternoon was wan- 
ing. Isabel noted that Rodney had an extremely 
anxious look, and she wondered whether it were all 
on her account. 

“ You’ll get dreadfully wet going through the un- 


158 Isabel Carleton in the West 

derbrush,” he said; “ and you’ll ruin your shoes, I’m 
afraid.” 

Isabel tried to look cheerful. She dreaded plung- 
ing into the wooded spaces below, and traversing the 
mud of the meadow. “ Never mind. My clothes 
will wash,” she said, “ and these shoes are so heavy 
that I don’t think anything could hurt them.” 

“You don’t want to wear fripperies when you 
come out into the mountains,” admonished the old 
man. “ And to my mind it’s not much of a place 
fer girls, anyhow.” 

“ I don’t know that it is,” Rodney half-agreed. 
“ It will be almost dark when we get back,” he con- 
tinued. “ We’ll have to go as fast as we can with- 
out tiring you all out, so as to get home before it 
gets completely dark.” 

“ I’ll do the best I can,” Isabel responded with a 
brave face and a sinking heart. 

The rain had now almost ceased, and the clouds 
had thinned. “ I don’t b’lieve it’s goin’ to come 
down like Jehu any more.” Matthew Hale bent 
forth and gazed earnestly at the heavens. With his 
ancient and grizzled look, he reminded Isabel of 
Noah peering forth from the Ark, in the vicinity of 
Mount Ararat. She gave an hysterical giggle, and 
Rodney eyed her apprehensively. 

“ I’m all right. Rod,” she reassured him. “ I 
just had a foolish thought.” 

“ Well, perhaps we’d better set out,” Rodney re- 
marked. As they ventured forth from their shelter, 
Isabel looked back at it wistfully. It seemed like 
comfort, compared to the vexations of the return 
journey to camp. 


The Cloud-Burst 


159 


Scrambling and sliding, the three people made 
their way down the steep declivity, where rivulets of 
rain were still gurgling over the rocks, and mark- 
ing the surface sand with tiny furrows. Every step 
was uncertain on the slippery way. Isabel was glad 
of the occasional support of the old man’s hand, or 
Rodney’s. 

“ I won’t be a clinging vine,” she said to herself, 
— “ if I can help it.” She made every effort to go 
alone, and not to cry out with irritation or fear when 
progress appeared particularly impossible. 

“ You’re game, if I do say it,” Matthew Hale re- 
marked admiringly. 

In the wooded regions, things were a trifle bet- 
ter; but the ground was slippery with the wet pine 
needles, and the raindrops dripped mercilessly from 
the boughs, soaking Isabel’s shirt-waist about the 
shoulders and sleeves. The underbrush whipped 
her in the face, for she would not let the two men 
stop to hold it away from her. They all stopped 
now and then to rest, for Isabel sorely needed a 
chance to breathe. On the edge of the woodland, 
she leaned against a scrub oak, while Matthew Hale 
scanned the heavens. Isabel saw that the look of 
troubled suspense had not left the face of her com- 
panion. “ Don’t worry. Rod,” she said, “ we’ll be 
all right. We’re ‘ out of the woods ’ now, and the 
worst is over.” 

“ The worst may be yet to come.” The young 
man’s aspect was gloomy. 

“ What do you mean? ” 

Rodney hesitated, and then burst out, “ If the 
weir is only all right ! ” 


i6o Isabel Carleton in the West 

‘‘ The weir! ” Isabel had not thought of that. 

“ Yes. There has been a terrific spurt of water 
in the stream. Perhaps — ” 

“ But the weir is solid concrete — solid as the 
rocks. Nothing could happen to it.” 

“ I — hope not.” 

Isabel did not reply. The idea that anything 
could happen to the weir was to her mere foolish- 
ness. Silently they started down the gradual de- 
scent toward the meadow. The way was rough and 
wearying. Isabel had long since ceased to care how 
she looked, so centered was her mind on what Rod- 
ney had just said, and on her increasing exhaustion. 
“ I hope they’ll have a hot supper ready,” she 
panted. 

“ Maybe they’ll be out looking for us,” suggested 
Rodney. 

“ They must know that we can take care of our- 
selves,” replied Isabel fretfully. The idea of being 
searched for, like Babes in the Wood, was vexing 
to her. She went on courageously, and felt a leap 
of joy when her feet sank into the wet grass of the 
Promised Land. The rushing of the stream grew 
louder, and a light flashed from the cabins across the 
channel. “ Shall we call? ” she said to Rodney. 

“Wait. We must see about the bridge.” Rod- 
ney’s voice was low and strained. 

The feet of the trio made chug-chugging noises in 
the mire. The old man put his hand under Isabel’s 
elbow and helped her through the worst of the 
muddy grass. Silently the group reached the bank 
of the stream, trying to make out landmarks in the 
gloom, 


The Cloud-Burst 


i6i 


“ The bridge is gone ! said Rodney. 

“ I was a-wonderin’ how you expected to get 
Missey across,” remarked Matthew Hale. 

The tumbling and foaming waters showed a wider 
stretch than had been there before. The trio stood 
pondering. Isabel was so fatigued that she hardly 
cared .whether she ever got “ across Jordan ” or 
not. But the Ritz-Carlton, with its cot and fire- 
place, seemed like an inaccessible heaven. 

“ Guess we’ll have to carry her,” said Matthew 
Hale cheerfully. “ Is there a better place to 
wade?” 

“ This is the shallowest place,” said Rodney. 
“ That’s why we put the bridge here.” 

“ Well, then, come on,” said the old rpan in a 
hearty tone, “ we’ll make a chair, same as we used 
to when we was kids, and carry the Princess acrost 
the ragin’ stream.” 

“ That’s the only way, I guess,” assented Rod- 
ney. 

Isabel listened submissively. It crossed her mind 
that Rodney was probably wild to go and look at 
the weir, farther down the river. “ But it’s all 
right, of course,” she thought peevishly. “ Any one 
would think it was a baby.” 

The two men crossed their hands, grasping each 
other’s wrists, and made a “ chair,” in which Isabel 
was seated, steadying herself by a hand on the wet 
shoulders of her bearers. She was not too tired to 
feel a shivering fear lest the current should take 
them off their feet. “ And then,” she thought, 
“ we’ll all go down into the waves of Jordan.” 

Cautiously the two men set their feet into the 


i 62 Isabel Carleton in the West 

stream, and went forward, feeling the ground be- 
neath them. The water swirled about their legs, ris- 
ing to their knees and above. Isabel held her breath 
as the men shuffled slowly across the widened chan- 
nel. 

“ No swapping horses in the middle of the 
stream,” the old man chuckled. 

Isabel’s tension relaxed when they reached the 
farther shore, and she was deposited upon the bank. 
She stood shivering, staring longingly at the lights 
in the cabins. 

Rodney put his hands to his lips, and gave a loud 
whoo-hoo, which brought an immediate response 
from above. A door opened, and George Burn- 
ham rushed down the slope with a lighted lantern in 
his hand. The two others followed at a slower pace. 

“ Well, well,” cried George, “ where on earth 
have you been? Are you all right? ” 

“ Perfectly all right,” Rodney answered, control- 
ling his voice. “ Isabel is just about worn out. 
Some storm, wasn’t it? ” 

“ I should say.” George was holding up his lan- 
tern, with a curious glance at the old man. Some- 
thing in his voice told Rodney that his fears had 
come true. 

“ It’s all up with the weir, I suppose,” he said 
dully. Isabel saw that he was pale in the lantern 
light. 

“ Yes. The freshet did for it,” said George in 
an expressionless tone. He had had his moment 
of despair, and had gained his self-command. 

“ Oh, no! Not really! ” Isabel burst out incred- 


The Cloud-Burst 


163 

Neither George nor Rodney said a word. They 
only looked at each other. George lowered his lan- 
tern, drawing a long breath. There was a moment 
of poignant distress; and then Mrs. Houston came 
up and slipped her arm around Isabel’s waist. 

“ You poor child,” she said affectionately, “ you 
must have had a trying time.” 

Meta was at Isabel’s other side, pressing a kiss on 
the wanderer’s wet cheek. Rodney was explaining 
Matthew Hale to George. 

‘‘ I’m absolutely all right,” Isabel assured her 
friends; “ only tired and wet and hungry. But Is 
It true about the weir?” she asked in a subdued 
voice. 

“ George says so,” answered Meta. 

“ But what — ? ” Isabel began. 

“ Never mind now,” Interrupted Mrs. Houston. 
“ Come into the house and get these wet clothes off.” 
She drew the girl into the Ritz, where a fire was 
burning on the hearth. 

Isabel sank Into a chair. She was pale, and her 
hair was disheveled from being caught in over- 
hanging boughs. Her clothes were dirty and torn, 
and her shoes were a mass of mud. With kind 
hands, the two other women helped her to get into 
a dressing gown. 

“ Where were you during the cloud-burst? ” asked 
Mrs. Houston. 

“ In a kind of cave under a projecting rock. It 
was dry there. We thought the storm would soon 
be over.” 

“ Then how did you get so wet? ” 

“ Coming through the woods and underbrush on 


164 Isabel Carleton in the West 

the mountain side, and then through the mud in the 
Promised Land.” 

“ The bridge went out, of course,” said Meta. 

“ Yes, Mr. Hale and Rod carried me across. 
I don’t know what we should have done if Rod had 
been alone.” She gave a humorous account of find- 
ing the old man, and of his odd remarks. 

Mrs. Houston was putting more wood on the fire. 
“ I’ll get you something to eat,” said Meta. “ We 
kept it warm in the kitchen.” 

“ Did you worry about me? ” asked Isabel, when 
Meta had gone. 

“ Not really, dear,” answered Mrs. Houston, 
hanging Isabel’s wet skirt over a chair to dry. “ I 
knew that you and Rodney could take care of your- 
selves.” 

“ I’m glad of that,” said Isabel. “ It would have 
bored me if you had been worrying. But it was a 
terrible downpour, wasn’t it? ” 

“ Frightful. I never saw one more dreadful. 
George and Meta and I stayed in here while the 
worst was going on. I was glad Mr. Houston 
wasn’t here, for he would have been fussing about 
the tent and other things. The ‘ Jordan ’ was a per- 
fect torrent for a while, but it’s almost back to nor- 
mal now.” 

“ And the weir is destroyed? ” Isabel spoke trem- 
ulously. “ How could it be swept away, with those 
heavy concrete foundations? ” 

“ It wasn’t that, exactly,” Mrs. Houston ex- 
plained. “ The trouble was what they call an under- 
cut, it seems. The water washed the earth away at 


The Cloud-Burst 165 

the ends and under the concrete, and unsettled the 
whole thing.” 

“ Well, but that wasn’t the fault of George and 
Rodney,” cried Isabel, who was brushing her hair. 

Mrs. Houston looked dubious. “ George told 
me that the Company can ‘ come back at them ’ for 
not selecting a better place.” 

Isabel paused with her brush in her hand. 
“ That sounds reasonable,” she admitted unwillingly. 

“ He says that the Company have a right to ex- 
pect their engineers to make a proper selection, as 
well as to do the work,” Mrs. Houston went on. 

Isabel sank back in her chair. “Poor boys!” 
she murmured. “ And they were so anxious to suc- 
ceed! ” 

Mrs. Houston went on putting things away, with- 
out saying any more. 

Meta came in with a tray. “ I stopped to make 
tea,” she said. “ I suppose you’re starved, aren’t 
you. Goldilocks ? ” 

“No; and Goldilocks had better hide her tou- 
sled tresses under a boudoir cap,” smiled Isabel, 
helping to pull up the table for the tray. She was 
trying to conceal the misery in her mind, and won- 
dering how she could succeed so well. “ Is Rod get- 
ting anything to eat? ” she asked. 

“ He’s gone to look at the weir,” said Meta. “ I 
made him take something in his hand — and the old 
man, too. It’s queer how you ‘ gaffled onto ’ him. 
Is he the Old Man of the Mountains, or the Pied 
Piper, or anything? ” 

“ Just anything, I think,” said Isabel. “ He 


1 66 Isabel Carleton in the West 

knows this country well, and he confided to me on 
the way home that he was counting on ‘ putting up ’ 
in one of the cabins. I tried to say I was sorry we 
had grabbed them away from him, but he said, 

‘ Never mind. I’m like a fly. I can roost around 
anywhere.’ ” She felt too tired to talk, and sick at 
heart over the misfortune of the young men. But 
she could not help asking, “ How did George find 
out? ” 

“ He dashed down there just as soon as the storm 
slackened. He was on needles until he could go. 
But the damage was done by that time.” 

“ Could anything have been done if they’d both 
been here? ” 

“ No, I think not. The stream was beyond con- 
trol.” 

Isabel felt relieved that Rodney had no special 
defection with which to reproach himself. She was 
glad to go to bed early, wearied out with the day’s 
adventures. She rather expected to stay awake and 
think about the state of things, but before she had 
indulged in more than one pang of sympathy for the 
defeated engineers, she was fast asleep. 

The next morning, the work on the weir was of 
necessity suspended. The two young men were out 
investigating and consulting regarding the damage. 
They came back for breakfast with the family. 
They were sober and silent over their bacon and 
eggs. Matthew Hale, who had shared the tent with 
them, was voluble in his attempts at consolation. 

“ There’s nothing for it but to begin over again,” 
said Mrs. Houston. 

“ If the Company is willing to let us do that,” sup- 


The Cloud-Burst 167 

plemented Rodney, trying to speak with coolness; 
‘‘ they may want to put in some one else.” 

Isabel flushed at the prospect of discharge and 
humiliation for her friends. She did not dare to 
look at either Rodney or George. She was think- 
ing, too, that the whole summer would be spoiled. 
George and Rodney would go, and the others could 
not stay on when their chief motive for staying had 
been removed; besides, it would be too humiliating 
to see some one else take up the work where the two 
Jefferson men had left it off. 

While Isabel was thinking this, Matthew Hale 
had been speaking. “ If they’re men of sense,” she 
now heard him say, “ they ain’t going to fire you ” 
(Isabel winced at the word fire; it sounded so much 
more brutal than discharge)^ “just because you 
didn’t make allowances for something that don’t 
happen once in a dog’s age. How was you to know 
what the blamed little crick was goin’ to do? ” His 
leathery hand gripped his coffee cup and held it sus- 
pended, half way to his mouth. 

“We should have thought of the possibility of 
its flooding,” said Rodney. 

“ You ain’t never had nothin’ to do with these 
here mountains. Tenderfeet like you ain’t sup- 
posed to know.” 

George smiled grimly. To call them tenderfeet 
was to be a Job’s comforter. “ It’s nothing to the 
Company whether we’ve been in this country or not,” 
he remarked. “ They expect us to produce the 
goods.” 

“ And you’re goin’ to produce ’em,” the old man 
said. “It’s just as you was sayin’ outside — the 


1 68 Isabel Carleton in the West 

best thing to do is to send a telegram as fast as you 
can to your Company, tellin’ ’em the plain truth, and 
countin’ on their havin’ some reason in ’em. 
They’ll keep you. Don’t you worry.” 

“ I think so, too,” said Mrs. Houston decisively. 

“ Sammis doesn’t come up this morning, does 
he?” said Rodney. “ One of us will have to ride 
down to Martaville.” 

“ I’ll go,” said George; “ and I’ll stay and wait 
for a reply.” 

“ Well, then. I’ll try to coddle the Greasers while 
you’re gone,” Rodney said resignedly. 

In a few minutes, George was on his way. Later 
in the forenoon, Isabel had a moment’s talk with 
Rodney. The young man’s face was almost tragic. 
‘‘ Don’t worry so. Rod,” Isabel pleaded. “ It will 
come out all right, I am sure.” 

“ No matter what happens, we’ve lost that much 
time for the Company,” Rodney answered in a bit- 
ter tone. “ Not a very good thing for them, nor a 
very good recommendation for us.” 

“ Mistakes will happen,” faltered the girl, feel- 
ing that she was speaking inanely. 

‘‘ They shouldn’t happen,” Rodney corrected her. 
“ Big mining companies don’t hire men to make mis- 
takes. By good rights, we ought to be let out, and 
it’s our good luck if we aren’t.” 

“ But it would spoil everything,” Isabel said, chok- 
ing. 

“ Yes, everything.” Rodney did not say any- 
thing more. After a few minutes’ silence, he thrust 
his hands into his pockets, and walked away. 


The Cloud-Burst 


169 

Isabel stood looking after him. Presently she 
saw Matthew Hale come stumbling from the direc- 
tion of the work-camp, excitedly beckoning to Rod- 
ney. 


CHAPTER IX 

TRAGEDY AND FARCE 

O ODNEY started running toward Matthew Hale. 

Isabel followed at a distance. She heard Rod- 
ney say, “ What is it? ” in a voice of apprehension. 

Matthew Hale answered hurriedly, “ The men 
are fightin’ among themselves. I don’t know as 
anybody can do anything, but I guess we ought to 
try.” 

Isabel had a horror of fighting, but she could not 
resist the impulse to see what was going on. Mat- 
thew Hale and Rodney disappeared in the direction 
of the work-camp, which was hidden from view by 
the shoulder of the low cliff, across the little ravine. 

“ I hope, I hope it’s nothing bad,” Isabel was say- 
ing to herself as she jumped across the trickle of 
water from the spring, and climbed the rocks to a 
place where she could overlook the camp. She 
heard a snarling noise issuing from the buildings 
where the workmen were quartered. Her upper- 
most thought was one of fear for Rodney: those 
Mexicans and Italians were so quick with a knife or 
a pistol! Who knew what they might do in the 
rashness of their wrath? 

Isabel was clasping her hands and breathing hard. 
“ Oh, dear 1 oh, dear ! ” she was muttering, uncon- 
scious of everything except her terror and the ani- 
mal-like noises which came to her from the camp. 

170 


Tragedy and Farce iji 

Now she could see that Matthew Hale and Rod- 
ney had rushed up to the group of men — eight or 
nine, who made up the crew, — surging out from 
behind the cook-shack, evidently following the strug- 
gles of two who were fighting on the ground. As 
the crowd parted somewhat, Isabel caught a glimpse 
of the men struggling fiercely. The other work- 
men looked on, laughing. Evidently they had no 
intention of parting the two who were affording en- 
tertainment on a dull day. Isabel, regardless of 
what she was doing, clambered down into the path 
and came closer to the scene of combat. “ It cer- 
tainly is as bad as anything could be ! ” she said to 
herself, fervently hoping that Rodney would be sen- 
sible and keep out of the fracas. 

Her eyes wandered for a moment from the mov- 
ing group, and then she was aware of Quong, the 
Chinese cook, crouching in the shelter of the cook- 
shack, and surveying the battle from behind a barrel. 
The skulking figure of the Chinaman was so expres- 
sive of terror that Isabel laughed in spite of her 
own fears. “Poor Quong!” she whispered. “I 
know just how he feels.” 

She was near enough now to see the details of 
what went on. The two men on the ground were 
rolling and writhing, apparently in an attempt to 
keep or snatch some weapon, though whether it was 
a knife or a revolver, Isabel could not tell. 

Rodney was calling out something to the strug- 
gling men, but Isabel could not distinguish his words. 
With his arms he was vigorously declaiming in the 
“ pumphandle ” language. Matthew Hale sec- 
onded him with explosive protests. The men on 


172 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


the ground paid no attention to the outcries around 
them. The onlookers drew back a little, but turned 
dark, threatening faces upon those who were inter- 
rupting their sport. 

Again Rodney called and expostulated. “ He 
might as well save his breath,” Isabel murmured. 
“ They’re bound to have it out.” She was shudder- 
ing at what seemed about to happen. 

Rodney spoke a word to Matthew Hale; and the 
two stepped forward to part the fighters. It was a 
dangerous thing to do. Not only was there a pos- 
sibility of being wounded by the weapon in the hands 
of the furious combatants; there was also the risk of 
being attacked by one or more of the crowd, who 
resented any interference from a “ gringo.” Isabel 
was tense as she watched the process of events. 

Rodney leaned over the struggling men, trying to 
pull the uppermost from the other. Matthew Hale, 
gaunt but agile, lent his presence to the rescue. 
There was a confusion of arms and legs and heads, 
a pushing and hauling and swaying of fighters, res- 
cuers, and lookers-on. Isabel, her heart in her 
mouth, stood staring as in a dream. She was say- 
ing things over to herself, but the only word that 
she was conscious of was “ Rodney! ” 

There was a mightier scuffle, and then Rodney 
pulled one of the Mexicans free from the clasp of 
the other. He dragged the man to his feet, and 
held him by the arm to steady him, for he was sway- 
ing dizzily. In his hand the Mexican held a short 
ugly knife. Matthew Hale had collared the other 
fighter, and was restraining him from dashing again 
at his opponent. 


Tragedy and Farce 173 

The two combatants glared at each other, pant- 
ing and grimacing; and then they broke into foolish 
laughter, and staggered back with gestures of sub- 
mission. Coming to their senses, they seemed re- 
lieved that they had done less damage than they in- 
tended. 

The girl looking on drew a long breath. Rodney 
took the knife from his captive, and tossed it to the 
ground. An evil-looking youth standing by made a 
motion as if to pick it up. Rodney turned upon him 
with a fierce snapping word of command, and the 
youth shrank back sneering but cowed. The other 
men, moving uneasily among themselves, began to 
look less savage. One of them flung a word of 
good-natured ridicule at the man whom Rodney had 
been holding in restraint; the others took it up, and 
began chaffing the two who had been thwarted in 
their encounter. 

Rodney and Matthew Hale were talking to the 
two men in a soothing way, and evidently advising 
them to wash off the grime of the struggle and make 
up their differences. One of them walked to the 
edge of the stream, and splashed water upon his 
face, disclosing to Isabel the fact that he was none 
other than Joaquin, the Mexican who had so rashly 
threatened the life of the “ speer-it ” in the ravine. 
He was bruised and slightly cut upon the forehead, 
but he grinned amiably when the others pointed at 
his wounds and laughed. 

Just then, one of the group, glancing about for 
another object of interest, caught sight of Quong, 
peering above the top of the barrel, uncertain 
whether to come out or not. With a loud laugh the 


174 Isabel Carleton in the West 

Mexican directed the attention of his comrades to 
the quaking Chinaman. They all turned to look for 
him, but he had dodged behind the barrel. The man 
who had discovered him now ran to drag him forth. 
For a minute, Isabel was in horror lest the poor pig- 
tailed alien might suffer at the hands of the crowd. 
But she soon saw that they were merely in sport. 
They hustled Quong about, pretending to threaten 
him with their fists, and guffawing when they saw 
him cringe. When he found that they were teasing 
him, he giggled sheepishly, and attempted to break 
away from his tormentors. 

In the meantime, Rodney had given Joaquin a 
light slap on the shoulder, as much as to say, “ Now 
it’s all over. Go and behave yourself decently.” 

“ The tragedy seems to have degenerated into a 
farce,” said Isabel to herself; and very grateful she 
was for the farce. It seemed an hour since she 
had run to the place where she could watch the 
affray; but she now realized that only a few minutes 
had passed. She looked toward the “ village.” 
No one was in sight, and evidently Mrs. Houston 
and Meta had heard nothing unusual, and had not 
come out of the cabins. ‘‘ Well, I’m glad they’re 
all alive,” the girl muttered. “ I thought they were 
going to have a wholesale slaughter.” 

Quong had by this time shaken himself free, and 
was tying up the loose end of his pig-tail, which had 
slipped down from its place around his head. With 
a disgusted face, he regarded the smears on his white 
jacket. He marched into his cook-shack with the 
air of one who can forgive a little rough handling, 
since he has miraculously escaped with his life. It 


Tragedy and Farce 175 

was nearing the noon hour, and he would have to 
hurry with the dinner which was to appease the hun- 
gry mob. 

The workmen dispersed, and pulling out pipes and 
tobacco sat down to loaf for the half-hour before the 
meal. They seemed to be entirely content to sim- 
mer lazily in the sun. Whatever differences they 
had had were smoothed over for the present at least. 

Rodney had discovered Isabel, who was just about 
to flee. He motioned to her, and came up frowning. 
“ Isabel,” he said reprovingly, “ you shouldn’t have 
watched that affray. It wasn’t a pretty sight for a 
‘ perfect lady ’ like you.” 

“ It was like a moving picture,” returned Isabel 
with a shaky laugh. “ I never was more enter- 
tained.” Then she said nervously, “Oh, Rod I 
You were awfully rash. They might have killed 
you ! ” 

“ Don’t you suppose I know it? You never can 
tell what those wild men of Borneo are going to 
do. But I had to take a chance. I couldn’t let 
them kill each other, could I? ” 

“ No — no, of course not,” Isabel conceded. 

“ Even if they’d only wanted to cut one another 
up a little. I’d have had to interfere,” Rodney went 
on. “ I didn’t want it said that I wasn’t able to hold 
the men. I couldn’t report that, on top of all the 
rest.” 

Isabel remembered miserably the nature of “ all 
the rest,” which for the moment she had forgotten. 
She sighed. Then “What was it all about?” she 
asked. 

“ The Lord knows. I don’t believe those fellows 


176 Isabel Carleton in the West 

do, themselves. They just got into a scrap because 
they hadn’t anything else to do. I guess it was a 
plain case of Satan and idle hands. But they’re a 
volcanic bunch, anyhow.” 

“ I know. I’ve seen the same kind in Italy. It 
behooves you to keep them busy, doesn’t it? ” 

“ Yes. I’ll get them to digging a hole in the 
ground after dinner, if I can’t find anything else for 
them.” 

The two young people walked slowly toward the 
house. “ Are you going to come in and eat with 
us? ” Isabel asked. 

“ No. I think I’ll let Quong feed me as usual. 
I don’t want the men to get an idea that I’m skulk- 
ing.” 

“As if you’d ever skulk!” cried Isabel indig- 
nantly. 

Rodney regarded her with an indulgent smile. 
“ I’m pleased to have your confidence, madame,” he 
remarked. “ But nobody knows what he’ll do till 
he comes to the test.” 

“ Oh, yes. There are some things that ‘ one ’ 
knows he will never do.” 

“ Maybe.” The young man’s face grew gloomy. 
“ I’m sorry about these messes on Mr. Houston’s 
account. He recommended us, and got us the job, 
and now we fall down on it. It isn’t giving him 
a square deal.” 

Isabel winced. She had not thought of Mr. 
Houston’s share in the matter. “ You don’t need 
to worry about him,” she said at last. “ He’s so 
philosophical that he wouldn’t bother about it. 
He’s used to ups and downs in business,” 


Tragedy and Farce 177 

“ I don’t want him to have any downs on my ac- 
count.” 

“ Well, cheer up, Rod,” said Isabel, as her com- 
panion was about to turn back toward the work- 
camp. “ It can’t be helped now, and the next thing 
will be better.” 

“ I’ll keep a stiff upper lip. Don’t alarm our 
lady friends by a tragic account of the battle. It 
wasn’t much, after all.” 

“ It was enough.” Isabel had recovered her 
spirits and the color in her cheeks. “ I’ll tell my 
tale as tamely as possible. The Houstons have 
pretty good nerves. Don’t you think that George 
ought to be here by this time? ” 

“ Yes, any minute. Well, run on, and we’ll await 
the issue.” 

Isabel climbed the path to Delmonico’s, where 
Mrs. Houston and Meta were preparing lunch. 
They stood listening while she swiftly related the 
story of the brawl and of its harmless outcome. 

“Is everything all serene again?” asked Mrs. 
Houston, taking up the tea-pot. 

“ Oh, yes; for the time being, they seem all right.” 

“ Is Rodney safe, do you think? Mr. Hale is 
with him, isn’t he? ” 

“ Yes, he’s there. The men all seem as lamblike 
as possible. They saw that Rodney and Mr. Hale 
weren’t afraid of them.” 

“ Then there’s nothing to worry about,” said Mrs. 
Houston. “ But I’ll be glad when George gets 
back.” A tiny line appeared between her eyes. 

“ Well, I hope he will bring good news,” said 
Meta. There was a troubled look on her face, but 


178 Isabel Carleton in the West 

she tried to conceal it by leaning over the bread 
which she was cutting. 

The three women ate their luncheon in silence, and 
nobody was very hungry. A dull suspense had set- 
tled over the camp. They washed the dishes and 
put the cook-cabin to rights, going often to the door 
to look down the stream toward the work-camp, 
which was out of sight behind the cliff. 

Isabel had just hung up her apron after every- 
thing was done, when she glanced out of the door 
of the cabin. “ Ah-h! ” She gave an exclamation 
of relief and apprehension. “ There’s George, with 
Rodney. They’re coming up here.” 

The two others rushed to the door. George and 
Rodney came slowly toward the village, talking 
earnestly as they approached. 

Isabel took hold of Mrs. Houston’s sleeve. 
“ Oh, I hope it’s all right,” she said in a low voice. 

Meta did not say anything. She stood tall and 
straight, staring at the two young men, with a firm 
face which showed that she had made up her mind 
to endure whatever might happen. There was a 
breathless pause while the engineers ascended the 
path. 

“ They’d look gloomier if the news were bad,” 
ventured Isabel. 

“ I’m sure it’s good news,” murmured Mrs. Hous- 
ton. 

Just then George looked up and saw the anxious 
faces at the door. He waved his cap and smiled, 
throwing back his head with a gesture of content- 
ment. 

“ It is aU right! ” the girls exclaimed together. 


Tragedy and Farce 179 

“Good news?” called Mrs. Houston from the 
door. 

“ Fine ! ” George answered with a ringing voice. 
He took a yellow telegraph slip from his pocket. 

“ Hooray! ” Isabel waved her handkerchief. 

The young men came up, looking happy and yet 
serious. “ Well, we’ve got another chance,” said 
George. His blue eyes were clear and shining. 
“ See, it says here, JVire received. Start again!^ 

“ Is that all? ” asked Isabel. She had rather ex- 
pected more of either encouragment or rebuke. She 
looked at the slip as if it might have something con- 
cealed behind it. 

“ Yes, that’s all. It’s what we wanted.” 
George put the slip away. 

“ That’s volumes,” said Rodney. “ Now we’re 
going to start in again, and we know more than we 
did before — paying high enough for the informa- 
tion. We’ll select a place that the Mississippi and 
the Amazon combined couldn’t make any impression 
on, if it rained for a year. We can^t be wrong this 
time : it’s a wood-chuck case.” 

“ Rod’s got it all doped out,” said George. 
“ There’s nothing for me to say. I guess I’ll go 
back and get Quong to cook me a dinner. I didn’t 
stop to get anything in Martaville.” 

“ I was too much excited to ask whether you’d 
had anything,” said Mrs. Houston. “ Stay here 
and we’ll get you something. I can’t tell you how 
glad I am that things have come out so well.” 

“ Thanks, kind lady. We’re indebted to our 
friends for a lot of encouragement,” answered 
George. “ And, oh, by the way, I brought some 


i8o Isabel Carleton in the West 

letters. Of course they were of secondary impor- 
tance, compared to my own affairs! ” He brought 
out a sheaf of letters and passed them about. Mrs. 
Houston took hers and disappeared into Delmon- 
ico’s. The girls lingered a minute, before they went 
to help with George’s lunch. 

Meta’s eyes met George’s with a glow of satis- 
faction and understanding. She had been more 
eager for his success than she had dared to say. 
What she said now was merely conventional: “ It 
did seem dreadful to think that our whole village 
might be broken up. We should have cried our 
eyes out.” 

“ It’s a tremendous relief to us,” confessed Rod- 
ney. “ Of course, we don’t feel any too much set 
up as it is. We haven’t covered ourselves with 
glory. But we have tried to do the right thing, and 
we sure have learned a lot.” 

“ We’ll never be the same again,” laughed 
George. 

“ I’ll -go back and see how things are down be- 
low,” said Rodney. “ Mr. Hale is one good old guy 
to hang around there and keep the men diverted.” 

A subdued gayety was restored to the village. 
The immediate strain of uncertainty was over. 
There was still the task of choosing a new place for 
the weir. After minute investigation the young men 
selected a spot somewhat farther down the stream, 
and prepared to begin their labors over again. 

“ I feel certain that we aren’t making any mis- 
take this time,” Rodney confided to Isabel the next 
day. “ I’m not a bit worried, though possibly I 
ought to be.” 


Tragedy and Farce i8i 

“ Of course you shouldn’t if you know you’re 
right,” said Isabel. “ You make me think of that 
Norwegian woman that mother had to help her a 
year or so ago, when Olga was on her vacation. 
This woman had left one of her children in Norway, 
and then had it sent over all alone, in care of the 
captain and the conductor. Mother said to her, 
‘ Weren’t you worried when you knew that the child 
was taking that long journey alone?’ And the 
woman said, ‘ Well, Missis, my husband got sick just 
then, and I had to take care of him, so I couldn’t 
worry as much as I wanted to ! ' ” 

Rodney laughed. “ I guess that’s the way with 
me. Anyhow, I feel pretty happy in spite of every- 
thing.” 

“ I’m so glad,” Isabel replied. “ And now we 
can make the most of our camp life while we’re 
here.” 

“ Yes. But I was in hopes that you’d get a 
chance to see some ranch life, too. I don’t see ex- 
actly how you’re going to do it.” 

“ Mrs. Houston said that when we went back to 
Helena, they might have a chance to take me out 
from there for a few days.” 

“ Do you think you’ll go to Seattle with 
them? ” 

“ I suppose so, though they don’t know them- 
selves where they’re going to stay; that is, they 
haven’t taken a house yet. But they say I’m to go 
anyway, because they have to stay somewhere, and 
I might as well be with them. I suppose I’ll be get- 
ting anxious to go home, before long, in spite of the 
good time that I’m having.” 


1 82 Isabel Carleton in the West 

Matthew Hale grew restless after a day or two, 
and started out on his endless quest. 

Then Mr. Houston came back unexpectedly, one 
noon. He had had a swift and busy trip to Butte 
and Anaconda. The evening after his arrival when 
the family were gathered in the tent, he heard the 
story of the “ undercut ” weir and the rampant Mex- 
icans. He listened with a tolerant smile. 

“ It was a pretty disagreeable experience for you 
two young fellows,” he said; “ but those things are 
the sort that a company takes and makes the best of. 
Why, I knew of a case in Pennsylvania (not the mys- 
terious mountains of the Far West), where a huge 
dam was built at enormous expense by seasoned en- 
gineers, and the same thing happened — bad loca- 
tion, undercut, and everything. Mind you, I’m not 
saying that you shouldn’t have been more exact, and 
that you shouldn’t have made a better choice; but 
no one can blame you if you didn’t.” 

“ We blame ourselves,” said George quickly. 

“ Bad thing to do,” answered Mr. Houston. 
“ That’s one thing I’ve never done in my business. 
If I make a blunder — and I make lots of them — 
I learn what I can from it, keep still about it, and 
forget it as soon as possible. And so the Mexicans 
got to scrapping, did they? Do any damage? ” 

“Not a bit, except to scratch up that fellow 
Joaquin a bit,” said Rodney. 

“ I’m glad of that. It would have been awkward 
to have anything worse. Up in one of the other 
camps last year, Chelford told me, the Mexican 
hands suddenly got riotous because the frijoles didn’t 
have enough pepper in them, or the chile con came 


Tragedy and Farce 183 

enough chile^ or something of that. sort; anyhow, the 
cooking wasn’t what they were used to, and they 
did raise particular Cain after they got started — 
banged the Chinamen up, and laid out two of their 
own bunch so that they had to be taken to the hos- 
pital, and I don’t know what all. So you see you 
came off rather easy.” 

“ It would have been much worse if Rod hadn’t 
dashed into the middle of things and changed the 
course of events,” spoke up Isabel. 

“ He ran a big risk,” said Mr. Houston, frown- 
ing. “ I wouldn’t advise any one to do that.” 

“ Fools rush in, I suppose,” said Rodney. “ I 
didn’t see anything else to do, and I’m still glad that 
I did it.” 

“ Well, yes, as long as you came out all right,” 
remarked Mr. Houston, “ which I’m very glad you 
did.” 

Isabel could see that the younger men had been 
dreading Mr. Houston’s comment on their compara- 
tive failure, and that they now felt relieved that he 
had taken the story so generously. It was true, as 
she had said, that he had had so many ups and downs 
in his long business experience that he was inclined 
to view incidents and accidents with philosophy. 
She remembered what he had said at the Wing 
House in Helena, — “ It will do them good to figure 
and sweat a little.” And glancing over at the 
thoughtful faces of the engineers, Isabel decided that 
figuring and sweating was doing them good. 


CHAPTER X 


SAVING DIANA 

W ITH the new beginning, affairs at “ Houston 
Village ” reverted to their old routine, and 
the cheerful life of the villagers went on as before. 
There were rides and trips here and there among 
the mountains. The Hurds came and went, on sev- 
eral occasions. Once they brought the news that 
the bear, “ Jof-fer,” had been shot by a new work- 
man at the mines. The man had been much excited 
over his brave deed, and had imagined he was 
rescuing the mining-location from imminent peril of 
attack, and he felt foolish when he discovered that 
the bear was a “ near-pet.” 

Mrs. Houston and Isabel whispered to each other 
with small regret over Joffre’s passing. “ I’ve never 
felt quite easy on any of our trips,” said Isabel. “ I 
always had the feeling that he’d be at every turn of 
the road.” 

“ I, too,” confessed Mrs. Houston. “ He was a 
real bug-bear to me. Is that the proper word? ” 
Isabel giggled, and then looked sober. “ It’s too 
bad he couldn’t have been content to stay off up in 
the remote regions, where he ought to have been, and 
so prolonged his life,” she remarked. 

“ I never liked the idea of his being around where 
184 


Saving Diana 185 

Rose and Freddy were,” said Mrs. Houston. 
“ And Mrs. Hurd didn’t like it, either.” 

“ Well, we don’t have to worry about that any 
more,” Isabel responded. “ And I for one am much 
relieved.” 

One profitable diversion of the family was to pick 
the great red raspberries which were beginning to 
ripen in quantities on certain hillsides. Old gloves 
saved tender fingers from too much scratching, and 
thick clothing resisted savage branches without too 
many rents. Mr. Sammis was commissioned to buy 
some sun-bonnets at Martaville, so that the three 
women might gather the fruit without apprehension 
over sunburned necks. Huge shortcakes, dribbling 
juice, appeared on the supper table almost every day; 
and Mrs. Houston could not refrain from “ putting 
up ” innumerable tumblers of raspberry jam. 

“ It’s so delicious — better than any we could 
buy,” she said, “ and we shall so enjoy it in the 
winter.” 

‘‘ But, Alice,” her husband protested, “ I hate to 
have you hanging over the stove all the afternoon. 
I don’t so much mind your staying out in the fresh 
air picking the berries, if you think you want to, but 
do let the jam go by the board.” 

“ It doesn’t hurt me a bit to brew up a kettleful 
of jam, Gilbert,” the lady answered, her cheeks red 
from her endeavors. “ The only thing that worries 
me is being argued with about it.” 

“ Well, then, I suppose you’ll have to have your 
way,” Mr. Houston answered reluctantly, as he went 
back to his typewriter. 

“ The fact is that you love doing it. Isn’t that 


1 86 Isabel Carleton in the West 

so?” said Isabel, when Mr. Houston was out of 
hearing. 

Mrs. Houston looked almost guilty. “ I do, 
more than I dare admit,” she rejoined. “ Tm an 
incorrigible housewife at heart. I like to plan and 
carry out some detail that will improve my school; 
and I like to go into good society and wear pretty 
clothes and hear clever talk; and then I like to bake 
a luscious cake, or make a dozen jars of nice jam. 
Every one of those things gives me equal pleasure.” 

“ I don’t see why you shouldn’t do all of them, 
then,” said Isabel sympathetically. 

“ If one’s mind is active, she ought to do all sorts 
of different things, and take delight in them, I think,” 
Mrs. Houston concluded. 

Isabel, during the weeks in camp, had been 
progressing with her own work. She had her 
simpler tools at hand, and had made some attractive 
bits of jewelry, with inexpensive settings. Once or 
twice she had sighed at the remembrance of the 
Montana sapphires which she had thought she could 
not afford; but she did not take much time for 
repining. . 

Meta had read all of her books about the stage, 
and had sent for more. Mrs. Houston had knitted 
many socks, and read her big educational books from 
cover to cover. “ We are really accomplishing 
something,” the women told one another from time 
to time. They were happy not to be mere idlers 
and pleasure-seekers. 

In spite of the fact that the young men were 
working hard, they found time for a good deal of 


Saving Diana 187 

fraternizing with the rest of the group. The long 
twilight afforded opportunity for picnics and short 
excursions; and the evenings in the tent or out of 
doors offered varied forms of rest or diversion. It 
was the custom of the party to illuminate the hour 
before bed-time by building a camp-fire around which 
all might gather, sometimes silent, or sometimes 
bursting into songs and laughter. 

These fires at night were a source of the keenest 
joy to Isabel. She loved even the scouring of the 
vicinity for wood with which to kindle them. The 
creek, at times when it had been swollen, had tossed 
up flotsam all along the shores, and these bits of 
wood and even larger logs were dry and crisp with 
the clear weather. A heap of them would be 
reared toward nightfall, supplemented by packing 
boxes, waste paper, and pine twigs. Pine cones 
gathered on all expeditions, or nearly all, served for 
the choicest offerings to the glory of the fire. 

From the moment when the match was struck and 
applied to the careful arrangement of paper and 
kindling, to the time when the last yellow coals faded 
into darkness, Isabel felt an exaltation which came 
of a primitive delight in the color and glow. She 
delighted in the leaping and falling of the flame, now 
lighting up the slopes around, and now leaving even 
the faces of the onlookers in gloom. The pictures 
which came and went were masterpieces of light and 
shadow: Meta in a crimson sweater against a cur- 
tain of black; Mrs. Houston with her hair glinting 
above a pink wadded Chinese jacket and a blue 
gown; Mr. Houston looking like a Spanish hidalgo^ 


1 88 Isabel Carleton in the West 

with his dark mustache and keen eyes, and a diamond 
flashing when he moved his hand. 

One afternoon Isabel sat by herself in the Ritz 
and composed a poem which seemed to her quite a 
thrilling bit of literature while she was writing it; 
but which sounded extremely flat to her when it was 
finished. She had thought of declaiming it at night, 
when the villagers were grouped around the fire; 
but in the end she merely showed it privately to Rod- 
ney, who “ could stand almost anything,” as he teas- 
ingly assured her. 

“ I thought it was going to be good enough to 
send to the L/7,” she confided to him when she was 
taking a stroll with him after supper; “but now I 
have a sinking feeling that it isn’t. It sort of peters 
out at the end, and some of the lines are lumbering.” 

“ Oh, you’ve got the academic spirit of fussiness,” 
said Rodney. “ People who have stayed around a 
college for a while get so critical that they can’t do 
anything with any life in it. All they can do is to sit 
paralyzed like the centipede in the ditch ‘ consider- 
ing how to run.’ Let’s see this lumbering effusion 
with its petering conclusion. There ! I’ve made a 
pretty good poem myself without intending to. 
Who knows what I could do if I tried?” He 
laughed as he reached for the slip of paper which 
Isabel held hesitatingly toward him. 

Rodney glanced down the lines. “ They look 
good to me,” he said, “ but why not read them to 
me? Then I could get the full effect.” 

“ I’m afraid the full effect isn’t very impressive,” 
said Isabel modestly. “ But here goes,” They 
stood still in the path while she read: 


Saving Diana 


189 


A MOUNTAIN CAMP 

Straight overhead with black and jagged lines 
The cliffs cut sharp against the darkened sky, 

Sparse-diamonded with stars; tall spectral pines 
Surround our camp and stand grim-watchful by. 

The stream impetuous-footed rushes past 
With ever-changing hail-and-farewell call, 

Its faint halloo reechoing, backward cast. 

From where it leaps in some brave waterfall. 

From out the gloomy silences around. 

Uncanny sighs and murmurs seem to float. 

While human-sad, with shrill pathetic sound, 

The lorn coyote lifts his doleful note. 

Stark loneliness creeps down the mountain trails 
With stealthy step, yet dares not come a-near; 

For where our yellow camp-fire glows and pales 
Are food and warmth and song and all good cheer. 

“ Why, you know, I don’t think that’s a bit bad,” 
said Rodney when she had finished. ” It’s clear, and 
it has some swing to it. Of course you haven’t 
adhered strictly to facts.” 

“Oh, no,” said Isabel earnestly; “that’s the 
beauty of writing in verse, — you don’t have to stick 
to facts. You embellish them to suit yourself.” 

“ There are times when one would wish to give an 
account of his own performances in verse,” said 
Rodney; “ and embellish them to suit himself. But 
anyhow. I’d send this to the Lit if I were you. Per- 
haps you can touch it up a trifle, after it gets cold.” 

“Yes, I mean to,” answered Isabel, folding the 
slip of paper into small squares. 


190 Isabel Carleton in the West 

Rodney took it from her again, and looked it 
over. “ I think there’s something in it,” he said, 
“ and I couldn’t do anything one-sixteenth as good. 
I should say, if you ask me, that if it has any faults, 
it’s because there are too many adjectives.” 

“ I thought of that.” Isabel flushed uncomfort- 
ably; “ but I didn’t know what to do. I had to fill 
out just so many feet, you know.” 

“ Yes, I know. That’s the Dickens of this poetry 
business. But why don’t you try the new free verse ? 
That looks as if you just chopped off a line where 
you felt like it, and stuck the rest of it on some- 
where else. It looks as easy as huckleberry pie.” 

“ Herbert Barry says it’s just as hard as the other 
kind, if it’s done well,” meditated Isabel. They 
had renewed their walk along the bank of the 
stream. “ I’ve never dared to try it, but I may 
some day, when I get rash.” 

“ Yes, do. And I think it’s good for anybody to 
do things like that — write poetry, and try different 
forms of expression. It doesn’t make such a terrific 
lot of difference what the result is; it’s the activity 
that counts. Don’t you think so? ” 

“ That’s what father’s always preaching,” Isabel 
replied with a reminiscent smile. “ You know he’s 
always haranguing us about expressing our real 
selves, and we tease him by telling him that his 
middle name is Self-Expression.” 

“ I’d just as lief have that for a middle name. 
And your father is a first-class trump, if you will 
permit me to say so.” 

“ He’s a dear, and I wish I could see him this 
minute,” said Isabel, whose thoughts took a sud- 


Saving Diana 191 

den leap back to Jefferson, as they had a way of 
doing. 

Rodney did not say anything satirical about her 
not being pleased with her present society. He kept 
still, letting her follow her own dreams. And 
Isabel, after her pang of homesickness was gone, 
resolved to write more verse, even if it should turn 
out to be activity and nothing more; and she would 
show it to her father as a souvenir of her summer 
in the West. 

Nothing of very great importance had happened 
for some time, but an event was now to take place 
which was to make a real difference in several per- 
sons’ lives. The event was near, but the conse- 
quences were still a long way off. 

It was on a Saturday afternoon, and Meta and 
Isabel and Rodney had gone for a long ride over 
toward Confederate Gulch. Isabel had become 
fairly well accustomed to riding, and only occasion- 
ally suffered from panic. Riding did not tire her so 
much as it had done at first, and she was able to 
enjoy the scenery and give attention to her horse at 
the same time. Meta was a skilled horsewoman, 
and seemed to have no fear of any contingency which 
might arise. 

On this specific afternoon, they had mounted 
higher and higher into the clear air, stopping now 
and then to rest their horses, since the climb was 
hard. They could see the dark tops of the pines 
far below, and the glint of a stream among the 
shadows. Here and there a waterfall, slender and 
silent, leaped down the side of the gorge, and dis- 
appeared among the trees. 


192 Isabel Carleton in the West 

The clouds which billowed across the sky were for 
the most part white and foamy; but presently one 
sailed over them which had a grayer tinge, and be- 
fore it melted, it had sent forth a swift gush of rain. 
The three riders dismounted and huddled against 
the rocks until the cloud had passed over. The 
shower lasted only a few minutes; but when the 
travelers set out again, they found the hard stone 
road somewhat perilous because of the recent down- 
pour. 

“ This road is awfully slippery, since the rain 
fell,” said Rodney, after they had gone a few steps. 

“ Oh, well, it will soon dry out,” called Meta, 
who was riding in front of the others. 

“ Yes, but in the meantime it isn’t any too safe.” 

“ One has to be careful,” Meta conceded, “ and 
look out where he’s going.” 

Rodney looked dubious. ‘‘ Now, Isabel,” he 
said, “ I don’t want to cast any reflections on your 
riding — you know I don’t consider myself a Buffalo 
Bill — but — ” 

“ We-ell,” hesitated Isabel, “ to put it plainly, 
you’d feel happier if I’d ride on Shank’s horses? ” 

“ Just over this narrow part,” admitted Rodney 
with relief. “ It’s so high, and the road is a mere 
shelf, if you stop to look at it. I believe you’d 
better.” 

Isabel pulled her horse up on the narrow road 
which led around the cliff of red and yellow sand- 
stone. “ All right. Rod,” she said amiably. “ I’m 
not really afraid, but it is a trifle ‘ skeery,’ and I’ll 
get down if you think it’s wiser. But it isn’t half as 
much fun,” 


Saving Diana 193 

“ I’ll walk, too, you know,” answered the young 
man quickly, “ and lead the two horses.” 

“ The road is too narrow for that,” said Meta, 
twisting in her saddle. “ Diana doesn’t need any 
leading. She’ll follow along like a collie dog. And 
there’s nothing to be afraid of.” Meta turned 
back, riding on with her superb air of ease and con- 
trol which Isabel always secretly envied. 

With Rodney’s help, Isabel dismounted; she 
loosed her hold on the reins, and walked beside 
Rodney, who was leading his own horse. Di- 
ana followed, stepping cautiously and looking a 
bit annoyed when her foot slipped on the wet 
road. 

As the group went on, talking aimlessly about the 
trail and the gulch below, they heard the rattle of 
hoofs at a distance; and then they caught a glimpse 
of a horse and rider on the road before them, below 
the level on which they were proceeding. 

“ Ha ! a fellow-traveler,” commented Rodney. 
“ Friend or foe ? ” 

“ He doesn’t look dangerous,” said Isabel. “ Do 
you think he’ll demand our money or our life? ” 

“ It makes me think of the not-too-bright young 
man who was telling how he had been attacked by 
footpads,” answered Rodney. “ ‘ They came up 
behind me with their revolvers,’ said he, ‘ and 
shouted, “Your money or your brains!” and by 
Jove, I had nothing for them! ’ ” 

Isabel laughed. She could now see the rider on 
the dark horse, and perceived that he looked harm- 
less. He had fair hair, under a wide-brimmed hat, 
and he wore the simple clothes of the ranchman. 


194 Isabel Carleton in the West 

He sat his horse with the ease of one used to riding. 

The trio urged their horses up against the side of 
the cliff, that the stranger might have room to pass. 
Diana moved uneasily and neighed at the horse on 
which the ranchman rode. This ranchman was 
young, not more than eighteen, with blue eyes and 
fresh red cheeks. A lariat of braided leather hung 
at the side of his carved Mexican saddle, a fine one 
darkened by use, but trim and picturesque. 

He raised his hat shyly as he went by, and Rodney 
responded by lifting his hand in a salute. “ What a 
nice boy I” thought Isabel. “I wonder where he 
lives?” Her eyes followed him as he went on 
along the narrow trail. 

“ Did you notice that saddle? ” asked Rodney in 
a low voice. “ That was a cracker-jack, wasn’t it, 
Meta?” 

“ It was a good one,” Meta assented. “ It had 
some handsome carving on it.” 

Still talking, they swung their horses out of the 
space next the cliff. Meta rode forward, and the 
other horses backed away to give her room. Diana 
made a lunge on the slippery road; then lunged again 
with a snort and clatter. Turning, Rodney and 
Isabel were horrified to see that the horse was half 
over the edge of the ledge. She was transfixed, her 
eyes red with terror. 

Isabel screamed, and Meta pulled up her horse to 
look back. Diana hung with her front hoofs on the 
road, and her hind feet on a tiny shelf of rock below. 
She could not draw herself up to the road again, 
but swayed quivering on the brink of the abyss, hold- 
ing precariously to life. 


Saving Diana 195 

“ Oh, what shall we do? ” moaned Isabel. She 
and Rodney both stood helpless. 

Then Rodney reached for Diana’s bridle. 
“Look out!” shouted Meta. “She’ll pull you 
over.” Rodney stepped back, for he knew that the 
warning was well given. 

“ Oh, but we can’t let her go down! ” Isabel was 
wringing her hands. 

Rodney put his hands impulsively to his mouth and 
gave a loud whoo-hoof 

The young ranchman who had just passed ap- 
peared suddenly again around a turn of the road. 
His eyes took in the situation, the paralyzed on- 
lookers, and the horse trembling on the edge of the 
precipice, her terror making an almost human ap- 
peal to those who stood by. 

“ Don’t move,” said the stranger in a quiet voice. 
He took the stout leather lariat from the horn of 
his saddle and swung himself down. Cautiously he 
went forward and looped the rope around the 
shoulders of the shaking horse. “ Steady, steady,” 
he was saying under his breath, “ steady now.” The 
horse seemed to respond and take new courage. 
The ranchman took the other end of the lariat and 
twisted it around a projection of the solid rock. 
The others stood watching him breathlessly. He 
kept the rope lightly held in his hands, ready to 
drop it if the horse fell, so that he might not be 
dragged off his feet himself. Now he made the 
lariat fast about the shoulders of his own horse, 
and began backing him carefully along the side of 
the cliff as far from the edge as possible. 

The rope grew taut as it tightened around the 


196 Isabel Garleton in the West 

rock, and gradually made itself felt as a support to 
the despairing Diana. She breathed harder, quiv- 
ered, and then with one supreme effort, trusting to 
the sustaining force of the lariat, she leaped for- 
ward, and stood with all four feet on the road. A 
gasp of relief sounded from the three young people 
looking on. Isabel found that tears were running 
down her cheeks. 

The strange boy went up to the horse and patted 
her on the shoulder, murmuring soothing words. 
“ A close call,” he was saying, “ but don’t be scared 
now. We made it.” 

Rodney came forward, his face glowing with 
admiration and joy. “ That was a splendid piece of 
work!” he cried. “It was great! But you cer- 
tainly took some chances yourself.” 

“ Oh, not much.” The boy was shy and modest 
again. “ I saw that sort of thing done once before, 
in a tight place.” 

Meta was now off her horse and adding her voice 
to the chorus of thanks. “ You did that wonder- 
fully,” she said. “ The slightest false move would 
have been fatal.” 

“ The horse helped,” said the boy, “ by knowing 
enough to keep still. Horses are just like persons 
to me. I can’t bear to see one suffer, and I always 
count on their knowing at least as much as I do.” 
He had a diffident air, and he seemed in a hurry to 
get away from the praise of the others. He now 
prepared to mount his own horse again. Isabel, 
alternately wiping her eyes and stroking Diana’s 
neck, was hoping that the new boy would stay on 
until they knew more about him. 


197 


Saving Diana 

‘‘ Don’t go yet,” said Rodney. “ We’re tremen- 
dously indebted to you. I don’t know what we can 
do to show our gratitude, but at least we’d like a 
chance to say thank you once or twice more.” 

The boy flushed. “ Oh, that’s all right,” he an- 
swered. “ Anybody would do that much.” But 
he hesitated. Isabel thought that he looked wist- 
fully at the group of friends. It occurred to her 
that perhaps he was as much in need of their com- 
pany as they had been of his. 

“ Are you in a hurry? ” she asked. 

No, not really,” he replied. “ I was just get- 
ting home from White Sulphur Springs.” 

“ Well, let’s exchange names anyhow,” said Rod- 
ney. “ I’m Rodney Fox.” 

“ And I’m Steve Clark,” said the lad. He and 
Rodney shook hands almost solemnly. 

“ I’m Meta Houston,” said the Western girl; 
“ and this is Isabel Carleton, a tenderfoot.” 

They all laughed a little, glad that the tension 
had been relaxed. 

“ Mr. Fox and I come from the Middle West,” 
said Isabel, “ but Miss Houston here puts on airs 
because she belongs in Montana. Won’t you tell us 
where you live? ” 

“ Oh, a ranch over that way about ten miles,” said 
Stephen Clark. “ It isn’t very far.” 

Isabel had an inspiration. “ We always take 
some lunch with us when we go on one of these 
trips,” she said, “ because we may be late in getting 
back. Won’t you stay a while and have a picnic 
with us? ” 

“ Yes, do! ” said Meta in her energetic way. 


198 Isabel Carleton in the West 

Stephen looked bashfully at the others. “ Why, 
I’d like to,” he said. “ But I have a sandwich or 
two with me, and I don’t need to take yours.” 

‘‘ We have bushels,” said Isabel, who frequently 
spoke in hyperbole. “ At least we have a lot. 
You’ll stay, won’t you? ” 

“ Yes, I’d be glad to.” The boy was more at his 
ease. “ There’s a place down below here, where 
there’s more room, and we can spread out a little.” 

They moved on down the road, leading the horses, 
and came to a spot where the trail was wider, and 
several rough pine trees with roots almost bare 
found a sufficient hold in the sandstone. The 
travelers left their horses with the bridle reins hang- 
ing, as is the custom in the West, and the patient 
creatures stood waiting with their heads down. 
Diana had almost recovered from her shock, but she 
edged carefully against the wall and quivered ner- 
vously now and then. 

There were sandwiches and thermos bottles 
strapped in parcels against the saddles of the vil- 
lagers. While the food was being unwrapped, 
Rodney explained to Stephen about the weir and the 
friends who were camping in the valley while the 
work was going on. “ Ever been over there? ” he 
asked. 

“ Once, near there. My father and I went there 
to fish, and we took a trip up to the Big Indian mine, 
while we were that near. Isn’t that where it is — 
down the second valley from the Big Indian? ” 

“ Yes, that’s it.” 

Tell us about your ranch,” said Isabel eagerly. 


Saving Diana 199 

“ It isn’t a very big one,” said Stephen, as if he 
wanted them to be sure not to rate it too high. 

“What do you raise on it?” asked Meta prac- 
tically. “Sheep?” 

“No; horses.” 

“ They must be awfully interesting,” said Isabel, 
thinking at the same time that her remark was 
rather silly. 

But the boy’s face brightened. “ I should say 
they are,” he answered. “ I don’t suppose there’s 
anything more interesting in the world.” 

The lunch was now ready, and they all sat around 
cross-legged on the rocks to eat their sandwiches. 
Stephen produced two from the pocket of his coat 
which was laid across his saddle. The bread was 
particularly light and white, and Isabel could not 
help remarking it. 

“ My mother’s a good cook,” said Stephen Clark 
simply. 

“ Do you have any brothers and sisters? ” asked 
Meta. 

“ In other words, ‘ Are there any more at home 
like you? ’ ” supplemented Rodney. 

“ No, I’m the only one. I get all there is going,” 
Stephen replied, grinning. 

“ But you haven’t told us about the ranch,” per- 
sisted Isabel. 

“ She’s never seen a ranch,” put in Meta, as if she 
were explaining the behavior of a half-witted 
person. 

“ Oh, haven’t you? ” Stephen looked up quickly. 
“ That’s funny. But say,” he added, after a mo- 


200 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


merit, “ why can’t you people come over and see the 
ranch some day? There isn’t such a lot to see,” he 
apologized; “ but maybe Miss — Miss — ” 

“ Carleton,” said Isabel. 

“ Miss Carleton would like it,” finished Stephen, 
for whom conversation was still something of an 
effort. 

“ Maybe we could arrange it,” said Meta, taking 
a sandwich. Isabel had looked toward her, as to a 
hostess. “ Maybe we could stay around several 
days. Do you know of any one who would take us 
in — that we could board with, you know, for a 
little while? ” 

“ Why, yes,” said Stephen. “ I think there 
might be.” 

“ You know father wants to take mother to Seattle 
next week,” said Meta, turning to Isabel. “ He’s 
got to go, and wants her to go along. It would 
simplify the whole thing if we came over to the ranch 
country and stayed while they are gone. Otherwise, 
mother wouldn’t feel that she could go, of course.” 

“ Oh, it would be beautiful,” cried Isabel. “ And 
everybody would be pleased, all around.” 

“ Now if Mr. Clark — ” Meta began. 

“ Call me Stephen,” said the boy. “ I’m not used 
to being Mr. Clarked.^* 

“ Well, if you know of a place, we could tell our 
people about it when we get back to camp. Father 
always lets me do things like that if I want to.” 

“ There’s Mrs. Rader,” said Stephen. “ Her son 
Charlie’s married, and Susie’s visiting her relatives 
in Oregon, and Mrs. Rader is sort of lonesome. I 
believe she’d take you. The Raders are nice folks 


Saving Diana 20i 

— not educated, you know, but fine people just the 
same.” 

“ Oh, say,” exclaimed Rodney, “ we know better 
than to judge people by what’s inside of books.” 

” I kind of thought so,” assented Stephen. 

“Won’t you have some of this cake?” asked 
Isabel. “ I made it, so I know it’s good,” she added 
jokingly. 

“ I can’t resist it.” Stephen took a piece of the 
cake, and went on speaking. “ The Raders don’t 
live very far from where we do.” 

“ How are we going to find out whether she’ll 
take us? ” asked Isabel anxiously. She intended to 
follow up the plan until she really made a visit to a 
ranch. 

Steve considered. “ I don’t know that it’s neces- 
sary to find out. I think she’ll take you. You can 
just ride over and tell her that you’ve come to stay. 
I’ll warn her, you know.” 

“ That seems rather brazen,” commented Isabel. 

“ Oh, no, it isn’t,” Stephen replied. “ And you 
can send your things over by stage. Send ’em to 
Helena, and then they’ll go from there. It’ll take 
a day or two.” 

“ I think Mrs. Rader will keep us,” said Meta, 
who knew the ways of Westerners. 

“ Of course she will,” asserted the lad; “ and if 
she didn’t, you could stay at our house — only we 
haven’t much room.” 

“ Your mother might not like to see two strange 
girls come riding up to her door, asking to be taken 
in,” Isabel remarked. 

“ Oh, we have all sorts of queer people riding up 


202 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


to the door,’’ said Stephen; and then he colored vio- 
lently at the thought of what he had said. 

“ Even strange college girls,” said Isabel amid 
the general hilarity. 

“ No, not many of those,” answered the boy, re- 
covering himself. “ But you know the stage brings 
lots of people back and forth. Sometimes we have 
to take ’em in.” 

After a little more talk, and some planning of 
details, Stephen declared that he must be “ trek- 
king.” The lunch was finished, and the others rose 
when he did. Rodney mentioned the saddle which 
had excited his admiration. 

“ It is a good one,” Stephen admitted with a 
pleased glance. “ It was given to me by a man 
named Reynolds — he has a ranch in Wyoming, and 
makes a lot of money. I couldn’t afford an expen- 
sive saddle like that, but he wanted to give it to me. 
He used to be at our house when I was a little 
shaver.” 

“ Lucky chap to have such a saddle. Well, now, 
we’re a thousand times obliged to you for what 
you’ve done. If it hadn’t been for you, we’d have 
lost Diana, sure enough.” Rodney’s voice was 
heartily grateful. 

“ She’s good for a hundred years yet.” Stephen 
laid his hand caressingly on the horse’s neck. “ You 
couldn’t afford to lose a nice horse like that.” 

“You’ll come and see us, won’t you?” said 
Rodney. 

“ Sure. But the ladies are coming over to our 
place first. So I’ll see you next week? ” he queried 
of Meta and Isabel. 


203 


Saving Diana 

“ You may count on us,” returned Meta. 

“ Good. Well, so long. Awfully glad I met 
you.” The boy’s shyness had come back. He 
lifted his hat awkwardly, and rode away. 

“He’s nice, isn’t he?” said Isabel, as the three 
turned to their horses. She was thinking to herself, 
“ Somehow, I feel that we’re going to see a good 
deal of Stephen Clark, from now on.” 

“ Fine kid,” agreed Rodney, who felt years older 
than Stephen. “ And he helped us out in a perilous 
moment. Well, shall we go on? ” 

“ The trail’s dried now,” said Meta. “ Are you 
all right, Isabel? You aren’t afraid, are you? ” 

“ I’ll walk a bit farther till we get past the scary 
places.” Isabel had a qualm or two when she 
thought of the precipitous edges of the road. 

She and Rodney walked on behind Meta. “ It’s 
interesting, that sort of thing, isn’t it? ” Isabel said: 
“ Meeting people by chance, and then getting to 
know them afterward. Sometimes it makes a real 
difference in people’s lives.” 

“ Which proves, I suppose, that there isn’t any 
chance about it after all,” Rodney responded 
thoughtfully. “ There seems to be a law that rules 
such things, if one could only find out what it is.” 

“ I expect to find out sometime,” said Isabel. 
“ Somebody must know, and I don’t know why I 
shouldn’t.” 

“ It’s worth looking into; ” Rodney smiled at his 
companion, as they went on down the narrow moun- 
tain path. 


CHAPTER XI 


RANCH COUNTRY 

M r. and MRS. HOUSTON were pleased with 
the plan for visiting the ranches. The ar- 
rangement was soon made. Mr. Houston was to 
ride over with the girls, and then come back and 
take the trip to Seattle with Mrs. Houston. 

On Monday morning the trio started out. Mr. 
Sammis was taking the suitcases to Martaville, where 
they were to be sent by express to Helena, and 
thence by stage to the ranch. Each of the travelers 
had a small parcel of necessities at the back of the 
saddle. Meta had a riding skirt of her own, and 
Isabel was induced to borrow Mrs. Houston’s. 

Mrs. Houston kissed the girls, saying, “ Good-by. 
Be good girls, and don’t get rash.” 

“ We will, and we won’t,” laughed Isabel. 

“ Don’t worry about us,” admonished Meta. 

The young men were already at work, at the new 
weir, when the riders went by on their way down the 
valley. George and Rodney waved their hats and 
called farewells and good wishes. 

It was a bright morning, and to Isabel it seemed 
as if the mountain world were fresher and more 
lovely than ever before. The group rode almost in 
silence, in single file. But now and then they called 
out remarks to one another when something espe- 
204 


Ranch Country 205 

cially interesting came into sight. They had planned 
to take the trip slowly, on Isabel’s account. Several 
times Mr. Houston insisted on her getting down and 
resting her muscles, while he walked beside her; and 
they all ate chocolate almond bars, which were al- 
ways appearing mysteriously when Mr. Houston was 
about. 

They stopped at Diamond City, a tiny group of 
buildings in a deep gulch, for their early dinner, and 
Isabel was grateful for the relaxation and the hot 
food. The afternoon seemed long, in spite of the 
varied scenery. They were now getting down into 
the foot-hills, where long rolling spaces alternated 
with high craggy cliffs. Isabel was in ecstasies over 
the flowers. Sometimes she was riding through 
great patches of purple larkspur which filled a dip 
among the hills, and sometimes she could look down 
and see the sandy soil covered with the delicate pink 
of the bitter-root blossoms, growing close to the 
ground. At other times, as far as she could see, the 
plain would be glowing with the bright crimson flow- 
ers of the prickly-pear cactus, which thrust up its 
savage thorny leaves from the caked and crackling 
earth. She ceased after a while to exclaim as new 
beauties rose to her sight. But she was never 
satiated, though she grew more and more weary 
with her journey. 

“Can you hold out?” asked Mr. Houston 
anxiously, riding up at her side. 

“ Oh, surely. And we’re almost there now, 
aren’t we? ” said Isabel. 

“ That’s Fort Logan over there, I think.” They 
were nearing a deserted group of buildings arranged 


2o6 Isabel Carleton in the W est 

around a grass-grown plaza. The doors swung on 
their hinges, and the windows gaped without glass. 
In the distance, a half dozen horses were grazing 
on the top of a long low hill. 

“ Some one is coming, over that way,” said Meta. 
She pointed with her quirt to a horseman just ap- 
pearing above the bench-land. He was riding 
easily, and his steed was loping pleasantly along. 

“ Probably he can tell us which is the Rader 
ranch,” Mr. Houston remarked. 

Then Isabel noted the fair hair of the rider, under 
the wide-brimmed hat. “ Oh, it’s Stephen Clark! ” 
she cried. 

Stephen waved his hat as he came near. 
“ Hello I ” he called happily to the three. 

“ Where did you come from? ” asked Meta as he 
rode up. 

“ I’m the committee of welcome,” said he. “ I 
thought you’d be wandering in, just about now, and 
I rode out to meet you.” 

“ That was fine.” Mr. Houston had never seen 
the boy before, but he fell at once into the easy 
friendliness of the ranches. “ What’s the Deserted 
Village over here?” he asked. “Is that Fort 
Logan? ” 

“ Yes,” answered Stephen, “ that used to be a 
government fort, years ago, when the Indians were 
bad; but it’s been deserted for a long time.” 

“ It looks romantic,” said Isabel. After the first 
greetings, Stephen had swung into place beside her. 

“ When I was a little kid, I had a romantic ad- 
venture there with some desperadoes.” The boy’s 
blue eyes were dancing at the remembrance. 


Ranch Country 207 

“ You must tell me about it.” 

“ I will, when there’s a chance. There ! that’s the 
Rader ranch.” He indicated a group of low build- 
ings in the distance. 

“ Where is yours? ” asked Meta. 

“ Over beyond the bench. You can’t see it. 
Those foot-hills on the other side slope right down 
to it. There’s a crick in there.” His face lighted 
up, and he was speaking eagerly, as if the ranch in 
the bottom-land meant more to him than he could 
tell. 

“ We’ll see it this evening, or in the morning,” 
said Meta. Isabel groaned inwardly at the thought 
of another moment on horseback. 

They went on, talking among themselves, and 
rode up to the door of the Raders’ ranch-house, a 
low log structure, with a clapboarded addition, oddly 
out of keeping with the rest. 

A thin kindly woman came to the door, wearing 
a dark print dress and a gingham apron. She 
was shading her eyes from the sun as the party 
came on. 

“Hello, Mrs. Rader! I brought ’em,” called 
Steve. 

“ Well, you did, sure enough, Steve,” returned the 
woman. “ You’re a man of your word.” 

“ They simply couldn’t stay away, after what I 
told them about you,” the boy teased her. 

“ Oh, go on, Stevie.” Mrs. Rader turned smil- 
ingly to the young ladies, and Stephen performed 
the introductions stammeringly. 

“ This is Miss — Miss Houston; and Miss Carle- 
ton. And this is Mr. Houston.” 


2o8 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


“ You’re going to take us in, aren’t you? ” asked 
Isabel with almost a quiver in her voice. 

“ Isabel is tired enough to fall off her horse,” 
said Meta. “ She isn’t used to riding.” 

“ We don’t want to impose upon you,” broke in 
Mr. Houston with his urbane air, “ but we’d really 
like to have you put us up, if you can.” 

“ Why, yes, of course I can. I’d be delighted. 
I kind of half-promised Steve that I would, any- 
way; but I was doubtful about your coming. I 
thought he was only making up a yarn.” Mrs. 
Rader looked over affectionately at the boy. 
“ Jump down, jump down, all of you.” 

“ We don’t need any further invitation,” mur- 
mured Isabel. 

They were soon down, and the two men were 
taking the horses around to the stable. The girls 
walked into the sitting-room, Isabel stumbling with 
weariness. 

“ You are tired,” said Mrs. Rader, putting her 
hand on the girl’s shoulder. “ You shall have a cup 
o’ tea, and lie down before supper.” She hurried 
away to the kitchen. 

The room in which the girls sat was a comfortable 
one, with a queer mixture of the rough and the ex- 
pensive. There were sheepskin mats on a good Ax- 
minster rug; calico curtains and a velvet Morris 
chair; a handsome lamp on a pine table covered 
with a faded cotton spread. The general effect was 
naiVe and homey. “ I like it,” said Isabel, and 
Meta nodded understandingly. 

After the strong green tea and the spice-cake 
which Mrs. Rader brought, Isabel was glad to see 


Ranch Country 209 

the room which she was to have — the one which 
belonged to the absent Susie. It was a snug, small 
place, with a comfortable white bed, an oak dresser, 
a writing table, and a chair. 

Chatting in a friendly way, Mrs. Rader turned 
back the spread, and then left the girl to her hour 
of rest. Isabel did not sleep, but lay listening to 
the subdued noises around the house, — the men’s 
voices in the yard, and the low tones of Meta and 
Mrs. Rader, the rattle of dishes in the kitchen. She 
emerged from her room much refreshed when the 
call came for supper. 

“ I asked Steve to stay for supper,” said Mrs. 
Rader at Isabel’s door. And then she added in a 
lower tone, “ He doesn’t really belong to the Clarks, 
you know. I thought I’d tell you, so as to prevent 
any misunderstanding.” 

Isabel opened her eyes wide. “Oh! Doesn’t 
he? ” she asked curiously. 

“ No, he’s adopted,” Mrs. Rader answered hur- 
riedly. “ They found him on the street one time 
when they went up to Helena for an outing.” 

“ How strange ! ” Isabel was readjusting her 
thoughts about Stephen. “ But I suppose they liked 
him and took him for their own.” 

“ Yes. Emery’s that kind; his heart’s big enough 
to take in all the stray boys in the State.” 

They walked through the sitting-room, and at the 
kitchen door saw Stephen coming in shyly with Mr. 
Houston. Mr. Rader and the hired man followed, 
and after the brief introductions which the situation 
demanded, the whole party sat down at the long table 
in the room which was kitchen and dining-room com- 


210 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


bined. Isabel loved it all — the simplicity and 
friendliness of it, the kindly talk, the quick assump- 
tion of equality. She looked over at Meta, to see 
whether that young lady were having her dignity in- 
jured by the kitchen and the hired man. But the 
Western girl was thoroughly at home. She had so 
frequently been a part of the group at a ranch or a 
lumber camp or a mining location, when her father 
had taken her about with him, that a situation of this 
kind seemed a natural thing. 

“ There’s nothing they hate here in the West as 
they do a snob,” thought Isabel. “ And I don’t 
blame them.” 

“ Sarah’s wondering where you are, I dare say,” 
Mrs. Rader was remarking to Stephen while she 
poured the tea. Her eyes twinkled as she spoke to 
the lad. 

‘‘ No, she isn’t. I told her you’d ask me to stay 
to supper,” grinned Steve. 

Isabel was wondering whether Stephen cared for 
the Clarks as if they were his own people, and how 
they felt about him. It must be hard just to have 
been “ found on the street,” and to be a “ stray ” 
boy. She felt a sense of pity for him; and then it 
came to her that pity was rather insulting when a 
young man was as healthy and happy and cheerful 
as Stephen. “ I’ll wait and see, before I permit my- 
self to be sorry for him,” she thought. She turned 
to speak to Mrs. Rader, and devoted herself to a 
discussion of the process of raising chickens; and to 
the virtues of a story which had been running in the 
Saturday Evening Post. 

After supper, Isabel and Meta and Mr. Houston 


Ranch Country 2ii 

and Stephen sat out in front of the house on some 
rustic seats, and talked intermittently of things that 
had happened during the summer, and of life on the 
ranches. The blue horizon which had been one of 
the great charms of the plains during the day now 
took on the bright colors of sunset. The long tawny 
bench-lands grew dusky and mysterious. The sweep 
of open sky seemed vaster and more expansive as it 
lost the brilliant glare of day. 

“ It’s wonderful,” said Isabel, half to herself. 
“ Everything has such a bigness to it. I wouldn’t 
have missed this for anything.” 

“ It is satisfying,” answered Mr. Houston. 
“ There’s a feeling that the open country gives you, 
that nothing else does.” 

Meta was holding to her father’s arm as she sat 
looking off across the benches. “ If only Mumsey 
and Popsey-Professor were here ! ” thought Isabel, 
using her childish names for them out of the impulse 
of affection. ‘‘How they would enjoy it. I hope 
that father won’t grind away in the summer school 
next year, and that he and mother will take a real 
vacation and come West.” 

Stephen rose and said he must go. With a 
friendly “ See you to-morrow,” he slipped away to 
saddle his horse and ride home in the twilight. The 
talk died down. Isabel was glad to go to bed early, 
and to lie thinking in the dark, for she was more 
tired than sleepy. She thought of Touchstone, and 
how he exclaimed, after his travels, “ Ay, now am I 
in Arden! ” and she repeated to herself, “ Ay, now 
am I on a ranch in Montana ! ” She was surprised 
to find herself where she had really never expected 


212 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


to be. She smiled at recollecting that Touchstone 
also said, “ When I was at home, I was in a better 
place.” “ Of course,” she thought, “ home is the 
best place of all, but I’m glad I’m here just the 
same.” 

She thought about Stephen again, and his life here 
on the plains. She remembered how she and Fanny 
used to say, “ You’re ’dopted! ” when they wanted 
to vex each other, because being adopted seemed 
about the worst thing that could happen to any one. 
And Fanny used to run crying to her mother, and 
say, “Am I ’dopted, mother?” never quite con- 
vinced in spite of rea’ssurances. 

The sounds about the house subsided, and the 
young woman slept peacefully in Susie Rader’s bed. 
The next morning after breakfast, Mr. Houston 
rode away, and the girls were left to their own de- 
vices. Mr. Rader was out overseeing the work on 
the ranch, and Mrs. Rader was busy with the house- 
work. Isabel and Meta made their own beds, to 
save Mrs. Rader the trouble, and then they walked 
out a little way from the hoqse, rejoicing in the 
fresh air and the sprinkle of bitter-root blossoms 
under-foot. The quiet and isolation seemed not 
dull, but soothing. They had very little to say to 
each other, for both were busy with their thoughts. 

They had just strolled back, when they saw 
Stephen coming on horseback, and lifting his hat as 
he approached. He leaped down as they arrived at 
the doorstep. “ My mother says,” he told them 
eagerly, “ that she would be pleased if you would 
come over for dinner, and you’re to come early, — 
now, if you can.” 


Ranch Country 213 

“ We’d be delighted,” the girls answered. They 
ran to change into their riding skirts, and to put on 
their hats. 

Stephen saddled the horses, and had them out in 
front of the house in short order. With a good-by 
to Mrs. Rader, the three young people started on 
their ride to the next ranch, several miles away. 
As they cantered up a rise in the bench-lands, they 
could see more distinctly the blue-green of the foot- 
hills half-covered with pines, and the dark line of 
the range beyond. The land sloped down into a 
small valley, where willows and cottonwoods marked 
the course of a rivulet. 

“ There’s the house,” said Stephen presently, 
motioning toward the willows. As the party drew 
nearer, they could see the low log ranch-house, and 
the outlying buildings, all in the silvery gray of 
weather-worn wood. “ That building next to the 
house is the bunk-house,” Stephen explained, “ where 
the hired men sleep if we have any; and there’s the 
corral — the big one, I mean, — and the little one is 
right behind it.” 

They clattered across the bridge, and came up to 
the house. Clothes were flapping whitely on the 
line, and chickens ran about the space between the 
house and the stables. Nasturtiums were blooming 
under the windows, and a row of hollyhocks softened 
the end of the dwelling. 

“ How homey it looks! ” said Isabel. 

“ It does to me,” answered Stephen. 

They rode up to the side door, and Mrs. Clark 
came out. She was a plump fresh-faced woman of 
about thirty-five. Her dark hair was becomingly 


214 Isabel Carleton in the West 

arranged, and she wore a dark blue print dress, 
well fitting and neatly made, with a white lace- 
trimmed collar. Isabel liked her at once. 

“ Well, Stevie,” she said happily, “ so you’ve 
brought your new friends? ” 

“ Mm-hh-m,” mumbled Stephen. “ This is Miss 
Carleton, and this is Miss Houston — my mother, 
Mrs. Clark.” Introductions were always difficult 
for him. 

“ I’m so glad you could come,” said Mrs. Clark 
cordially. “ And I didn’t think you’d stand on cere- 
mony about it.” 

“ No, indeed,” Isabel replied. “ It was awfully 
nice of you to ask us.” 

They were now dismounting, and Stephen was 
taking the horses away. He let his own horse fol- 
low while he led the two others. “ I wanted you 
to come as soon as you’d rested from your trip,” 
Mrs. Clark was saying. “ Stephen was so taken 
with all of you that day — Saturday, wasn’t it? — 
that he met you over in Confederate Gulch, that I 
was getting impatient to see you myself.” 

“ We liked him, too,” said Meta in her direct 
way. “ And we were glad that he could arrange 
for us to come.” 

Mrs. Clark was leading the way into the house. 
“ I know you don’t want to stay indoors,” she said, 
“ but do come in for a little while.” 

She took them through a kitchen-and-dining-room, 
to the sitting-room at the front of the house. It had 
a dull-toned carpet, plain oak furniture, a book-case 
filled with books, an organ, and a victrola. The 


Ranch Country 215 

effect was more harmonious than that produced by 
the Raders’ sitting-room. 

“ What comfortable homes you ranch-people 
have,” Isabel said warmly. 

“ We give up a good deal, being so isolated,” 
Mrs. Clark answered, “ and we try to make it up 
to ourselves with a few things that will break the 
monotony. I want Steve to enjoy his home,” she 
added earnestly. 

“ I’m sure he does,” said Isabel. She could see 
that Mrs. Clark was very fond of him. 

“ He’s a lively boy, and it takes a good deal to 
keep him interested.” Mrs. Clark spoke with 
pride of the boy’s active mind. 

“ Did he tell you about saving the horse for us? ” 
asked Meta, unpinning her hat, and letting Mrs. 
Clark take it from her. 

“ Yes. It was exciting, wasn’t it? ” 

‘‘ I was almost in fits,” confessed Isabel. “ It 
didn’t seem as if anything could save Diana. But 
Stephen rose to the occasion as coolly as could be.” 

“ He always does,” responded Mrs. Clark, “ no 
matter how shy he may seem. When he was just 
a little fellow, he did some really brave things, and 
he was so timid and shrinking that you’d never im- 
agine he could.” 

Isabel was impatient to be out looking at things, 
but she saw that Mrs. Clark enjoyed the visit from 
some one outside her own life. 

“ It’s a great treat to me to have some ‘ women- 
folks ’ as we say here, to talk to,” the older woman 
was continuing. “ You see, we women lead rather 


2i6 Isabel Garleton in the West 

lonely lives. The men are away a good deal on the 
range, and we are often alone all day for weeks at 
a time. I’ve always liked people, and would have 
liked a social life if I hadn’t been shut away from it.” 

The way in which she said this made a pull at Isa- 
bel’s heart. “ It’s all very well,” the girl thought, 
“ for us to come out here for a change from a busy 
life. But it isn’t so diverting to stay here day after 
day and year after year, without the pleasures that 
we take as a matter of course at home.” She 
thought of the calls, the motor-rides, the parties, the 
dinners — even meeting people on the street or see- 
ing them go by — and the constant diversion of the 
life she led in Jefferson. “ And Mrs. Clark is a 
bright woman, who would enjoy those things,” she 
said to herself. “ I hope that sometime she can 
come and visit us.” Already she felt that this was 
a friendship which would last. 

Meta and Mrs. Clark were talking about Helena, 
where they both had a number of friends. Now 
Stephen came in with his hat in his hand. He 
joined in the conversation for a while, and then said 
hesitatingly, “ Well, do you want to come out and 
see what little there is to see? I’ll be glad to show 
you around.” 

The girls jumped up. “ I want to see every- 
thing,” said Isabel. 

“ Miss Tenderfoot is excited over an ant-hill,” 
smiled Meta. “ She’s the most enthusiastic sight- 
seer you ever saw. Nothing escapes her, and she’s 
interested in everything and everybody.” 

“ That’s the kind of people we like.” Mrs. Clark 
laid her hand on Isabel’s arm. 


217 


Ranch Country 

“ Won’t you come, too? ” said Meta politely. 

“ No. I must stay and look after my din- 
ner.” 

“ Oh, you aren’t going to fuss for us, are you? ” 
protested Isabel. 

“ No, indeed; but we always have a hearty meal 
at noon anyway.” 

“ Mother’s the prize cook,” said Steve, with his 
eyes on Mrs. Clark, who flushed girlishly. 

“ I’m just a plain cook,” she laughed, “ who has 
spent most of her life cooking for hungry men. 
Anything tastes good to them.” 

“ You’ll see,” said Stephen, nodding at the young 
women, his red cheeks glowing. 

A cat, yellow with green eyes, came purring to- 
ward them as they went out at the side door. 
Stephen took her up and stroked her. “ This is 
Peggy-Puss,” he said. “ Our cats are always named 
Peggy-Puss, after the one we had when I first came 
to the ranch.” 

This was the first reference he had made to the 
fact that he was not an “ own boy ” to the Clarks. 
Isabel, who loved cats, caressed Peggy and was re- 
warded by loud purrs. 

“ I’ll show you the stables first,” said Stephen. 

The buildings were carefully constructed and very 
neat, though made of logs and crude in appearance. 
The horses which Meta and Isabel had ridden were 
standing munching hay. Near them was Mr. 
Clark’s riding-horse. Wampum, no longer so young 
as he once was. “ And here in the other stable is 
my little horse. Scratch Gravel,” said Stephen. He 
showed them a small cream-colored horse, no bigger 


21 8 Isabel Carleton in the West 

than a pony, who looked around at them with an in- 
telligent eye, and whinnied for attention. 

“ He looks as if he knew a lot,” commented Meta. 

He does,” Steve replied. “ He’s been my pet 
for seven years. I’m pretty heavy to ride him now, 
but I take him out now and then. You could ride 
him. Miss Carleton.” 

“ I’d like to.” Isabel looked pleased. 

“ I’ll show you his bridle.” Stephen brought out 
the gay red and white horse-hair bridle made by 
prisoners in the penitentiary. 

Then he showed his guests the big corral, where 
the horses were kept when they were brought in 
from the ranges; and the little corral, where each 
horse was “ broken ” separately from the rest. 
There were three or four savage looking bronchos 
in the big corral, and Isabel hung on the rails star- 
ing at them, watching them paw and sniff the air and 
run about the enclosure as if seeking a way of es- 
cape. Their wild aspect fascinated her, and she 
could hardly be dragged away to look at anything 
else. 

Now there were the root cellars to look at, where 
vegetables were kept in winter; and the tool-sheds 
and work-shop, where repairs were made; and then 
the garden in the hollow, near the stream, where 
peas and carrots and corn and cabbages were grow- 
ing. 

“ I made the garden,” said Stephen with pride. 
And he pointed out some apple-trees on the hill side 
beyond the dip where the garden had been planted. 
“ I suppose they look skimpy beside Eastern apple- 
trees,” he said. “ But we’re proud of them. And 


Ranch Country 219 

there’s a funny story about them, too. When I was 
a little kid, I set the grass a-fire and spoiled all the 
trees but one — that one.” He indicated a low 
gnarled tree with green apples on it. “ My mother 
was awfully cut up about it — she was more sensitive 
about those things then than she is now; and so the 
next year my father sent for some apple trees and 
let me plant them, so that I could make up in that 
way for spoiling the others.” 

“ And they’re flourishing now,” said Isabel, with 
an appreciative smile for the story. “ Your father 
must be a nice man.” 

“ He’s the finest there is. Look, here’s where I 
used to put water-wheels, and the current would 
whirl ’em around like mad.” 

“What’s that queer thing?” asked Isabel. A 
machine of some sort had been fixed close to the 
shore of the little stream. 

“ That’s a hydraulic ram, as they call it, that 
pumps water up to the house, so that we can have a 
bath-room and running water. Not many folks do, 
out here, but mother and father didn’t rest easy till 
they got this thing installed. It’s a help to mother 
in doing the house-work.” 

“ What runs it? ” asked Meta. Isabel had 
vaguely taken the power for granted. 

“ It runs itself, from the pressure of the current. 
It has a valve here — you see, and another here — ” 
Stephen expounded the device to Isabel’s polite and 
Meta’s attentive ears. 

And so they went the rounds, listening to 
Stephen’s explanations. “ You must love it here,” 
said Isabel impulsively. 


220 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


“ I do. It’s home, for one thing, and the out- 
door life is great.” 

Isabel wanted to ask him about his plans for 
school, but hesitated because he seemed self-con- 
scious with Meta. While the group sat talking on 
a bench at the door of the tool-shed, three horse- 
men appeared over the brow of a hill. 

“ Father and the hired men,” said Stephen. He 
waved as the men came nearer. Mr. Clark came 
up to them, and the others rode on. The ranchman 
was tall and almost gaunt, with clear features and 
deep-set eyes. “ These are — er — the young la- 
dies I told you about,” said Stephen; “ they’re stay- 
ing at the Raders’, you know.” 

“ I’m glad to know you,” Mr. Clark said, raising 
his wide-brimmed hat. “ Steve told us about the 
horse. It was lucky he had the lariat along.” 

“ I always do,” Stephen remarked, with some- 
thing near gruffness. 

“ Well, of course, any horse-wrangler does,” Mr. 
Clark conceded. Then he said seriously, “ I’m glad 
Steve has found some friends. It’s sort of lonesome 
for him out here.” 

“ Oh, no, it isn’t,” Stephen asserted quickly; “ but 
of course it’s good to find friends anyhow.” 

“Dinner time, isn’t it?” said the older man. 
“ Perhaps the young ladies don’t know that we have 
dinner early.” He rode on, and the three others 
strolled back to the house, where savory odors wel- 
comed them. 

They all sat down at the same table in the kitchen- 
dining-room, as they had done at the Raders’. 
There were gay chintz curtains at the windows, and 


Ranch Country 221 

a few colored pictures on the walls. Strips of rag 
carpet lay across the floor. The hired men were big 
good-looking fellows, who devoted themselves to 
the food and said nothing. Conversation was not 
very flourishing, but there seemed to be no need of 
forcing it. 

“Ah! cream pie!” Stephen exclaimed when the 
dessert came on. “ I thought it would be. Mother 
always makes my favorite when there’s any celebra- 
tion.” 

“ Are we the celebration? ” asked Isabel. 

“Yes. Didn’t you know it? ” 

“ We never dreamed it, but we’re glad to be so 
celebrated.” 

Sarah Clark slyly slipped a second piece of the pie 
upon Stephen’s plate when she thought no one was 
looking. “ She thinks he’s a little boy still,” said 
Isabel to herself, “ just as father can never remem- 
ber that I’m as good as grown up.” 

The girls helped with the dishes, and there was a 
good deal of gay talk. And then Sarah Clark said 
soberly, “ It seems good to have you girls here. I 
miss Susie Rader. She’s gone to Oregon, you know, 
and she’s going to be married when she comes 
back. When Steve goes, it will be lonesome for 
me. 

“ Is he going? ” Isabel asked, as she stood with 
a dish-towel in her hand. 

“ Why, I say he is, but it isn’t really decided. 
He finished the high school in Helena last June. 
We missed him, but of course he came home a great 
deal, for week-ends and vacations. So it wasn’t so 
bad.” 


222 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


And now the great question is, what he’s to do 
next? ” said Isabel. 

“ Yes. I think about it a good deal.” The fry- 
ing-pan absorbed Mrs. Clark’s attention, and then 
the subject was changed. 

After the dishes were finished, Stephen called the 
young women to come out; he had Scratch Gravel 
saddled for Isabel to ride. She rode up and down 
in the space between the house and the stables, and 
everybody was talking at once. 

“You ought to have seen the little rascal buck 
when Steve first tried to ride him,” said Mr. Clark. 
“ He’s old enough to be quiet now, but then he was a 
sly little rat. He threw Steve head over heels into 
the bushes, and scratched him almost to pieces.” 

“ Scratched my eyes out, and I had to let him 
throw me another time to scratch them in again,” 
commented Steve. 

“ Is he safe now, really?” asked Isabel in alarm. 

“ Perfectly,” she was assured. “ You don’t need 
to worry.” 

She decided not to. Mr. Clark and Stephen got 
out the horses for themselves and Meta, and the 
group rode out toward the foot-hills. Isabel and 
Stephen rode together. 

“ These hills have been cleared up a good deal 
since I came here to live,” said Stephen. “ We get 
up our wood here, you know, and that gradually 
clears the land. I want to show you Jim Ball’s 
Basin.” They rode on farther, and he pointed out 
a hollow which was only scantily surrounded by 
trees, though a good many stumps were standing 
about. “ Jim Ball was killed here by the Indians in 


Ranch Country 223 

the early days,” the lad went on, “ and that’s why it 
keeps the name. Well, when I was just a kid, 
eleven years old. I’d only been here on the ranch 
about a month. I had a calf named Spotty, and I 
thought she was just the grandest little beast living. 
On this day that I’m telling about, I went to look 
for her, and she was gone. I thought she had 
come up here to the foot-hills, so I started off to find 
her. It was late in the afternoon, and cloudy. Mr. 
Clark — my father — had gone to the Springs the 
day before, and hadn’t got back. It wasn’t so very 
cold when I started, and I had a sweater on, and no 
coat. Oh, say! maybe I’m boring you. Perhaps 
you don’t want to hear this story.” 

“ Oh, yes, I do,” Isabel answered. “ I suppose 
something exciting happened to you, and I have to 
know what it was.” 

“ It began to get awfully cold when I’d been out 
a little while.” 

“ Oh, dear! ” said Isabel. 

“ Yes, it was oh, dear for me. The clouds got 
thicker and dusk was coming on, and I had lost my 
way. I found myself there in the Basin. It was 
just as open as it is now, but there were thick trees 
around it. I thought I saw Spotty on the other side, 
near the bushes. I went over, and all at once a huge 
animal stepped out of the underbrush. It seemed as 
big as a house to me. It had horns that stretched 
out like the branches of a tree, and it snorted like a 
locomotive letting off «team. There it was, tower- 
ing up above me ” — Stephen waved his hand to in- 
dicate the enormousness of the creature. 

“ What did you do? ” breathed Isabel. 


224 Isabel Carleton in the West 

“ I stood there for about ten years, scared so stiff 
I couldn’t move. The animal was a moose, you 
know, and the one I’d thought was Spotty was a 
moose calf. There was another one, the mother, I 
suppose, rustling in the bushes.” 

“ Poor child! And did they go after you? ” 

“ Yes, they kept on snorting, and stepped out at 
me. I took to my legs and ran like a wild Indian, 
expecting every second that the biggest moose would 
land on the back of my neck. I certainly was one 
scared kid ! ” The boy looked over at his com- 
panion with a humorously reminiscent air. 

“ I should think so.” 

“ Well, to make matters worse, I was more lost 
than ever. I’d escaped from the moose, but I 
kept going round in a circle ; and it grew colder than 
Greenland, and sleet began to fall, and the dark 
came on in good earnest. Here I was, alone and 
lost and scared and freezing — ” The boy’s voice 
grew tense. “ My! it seems real to me, even now.” 

Isabel waited for him to go on. 

“ I got so tired and cold I couldn’t make another 
move ; so I cuddled down in the leaves behind a rock, 
and drowsed off.” 

“ The worst thing you could do,” murmured the 
girl. 

“ Of course; but I’d got to the end of things by 
that time. I couldn’t go a step farther. That was 
about the last of me — ” 

“ And then ? ” asked Isabel. 

Stephen looked over to where the tall ranchman 
was riding beside Meta. “ And then my father came 
riding and calling through the woods — calling and 


Ranch Country 225 

calling in the dark — and I thought I was in bed 
asleep, and that he was calling me to get up in the 
morning. And I made one great effort — I was al- 
most gone, but I said as loud as I could, ‘ Yes, yes. 
I’m coming! ’ That was the last I knew till he’d 
got me home, and there was a light in the doorway, 
and Mother-Sarah stood there. It was like 
heaven.” 

“ Yes,” said Isabel. 

Stephen was silent, flicking the grass with his quirt. 
After a while, he said, “ And it was then that I found 
out that mother really cared for me. I thought she 
didn’t, before, and I guess she thought so, too. You 
see. I’m not — I’m — ” He struggled to say what 
all at once seemed very difficult. 

“ Yes, I know,” the girl answered quietly. 
“ Mrs. Rader told me.” 

Stephen flushed. “ I’m glad you know,” he said. 
“ I suppose it seems queer to you.” 

“ Why, no,” answered the girl quickly, “ I think 
it’s beautiful that you have such splendid people and 
such a good home.” 

“ I almost had to go to a — a home; you know 
what I mean — where they send children who 
haven’t any — family.” 

Isabel looked at the lad with understanding. 
“ But you didn’t have to,” she said. 

“ No. Somehow — I was only a little scared fel- 
low, you know — but I just wouldn^t go to an insti- 
tution. I don’t know how I had the courage, but I 
made up my mind there was some place for me in 
the world — somebody who would care.” 

“ And what did you do? ” 


226 Isabel Carleton in the West 

Stephen smiled wryly. “ I went down to Main 
Street — you’ve been in Helena ? ” 

“ Yes, we stayed there several days before we 
went to the mountains.” 

“ Well, right in the deepest part of the Gulch — 
it used to be Last Chance Gulch, you know — there’s 
a millinery store, with a candy shop across from it 
— Bruere’s.” 

“ We went there for sodas once or twice.” 

“ I stood there in front of the millinery store and 
waited ” — Stephen laughed in a nervous way — 
“ waited for something to turn up. People went by, 
back and forth — all sorts of people — and I kept 
getting tireder and scareder every minute. A po- 
liceman came up and spoke to me, and asked me why 
I didn’t go home. That nearly finished me.” 

“ I can imagine ! ” 

“Then my father and mother — Emery and 
Sarah Clark — came along.” 

“ And found you ! ” Isabel’s voice was glad. 

“ Well, mother dropped a bundle, and it all came 
loose, and I picked it up for her, as polite as you 
please; but all the time I had my eye on father. He 
looked so — so sort of good, you know.” 

“ His eyes are beautiful.” 

“ It was his eyes. It seemed as if I couldn’t let 
him go away and leave me. And when I thought 
he was going to, I began to cry. He couldn’t go 
away and leave me crying — he has such a soft 
heart. So the upshot of it was that they took me, 
and brought me along home with them.” 

“ I feel as delighted as if it had been myself,” Isa- 
bel exclaimed. Her face was lighted with relief. 


Ranch Country 227 

“ You see, I just would have them for my own 
folks,” said Stephen soberly. “ I suppose I’ve tired 
you terribly, telling you all about myself.” He grew 
red with his apologies. “ I never told any one so 
much before. I don’t know why I told you. I — I 
thought you would be interested. I’m sorry if I’ve 
bored you.” 

“ You haven’t, at all,” the girl rejoined. “ I’m 
so glad I know. I should never have been really ac- 
quainted with you, if I hadn’t known. It would be 
just a surface acquaintance — no reality in it.” 
They rode on thoughtfully, hurrying their horses to 
catch up with the others. “ I hope you’ll have a 
chance to get acquainted with Rodney Fox,” Isabel 
said as they cantered along; ‘‘ I think you’d like 
him.” 

“ I did like him when I met him last Saturday. 
He seems a lot older than I am. Of course he is 
a year or two older. And then I’ve seen so little 
and lived such a kind of simple life here on the ranch 
— I guess I act younger than I am.” 

They had now come up with Meta and Mr. Clark, 
and the conversation turned to the landscape and to 
Scratch Gravel’s merits as a saddle horse — he had 
behaved irreproachably. As they rode back, 
Stephen or Mr. Clark pointed out various land- 
marks and the party were all talking and calling to 
one another. 

Isabel felt that she had become a good friend of 
Stephen’s during this short ride and that she under- 
stood his sensitive boyish nature. She knew that 
Mrs. Clark would be pleased at the friendship; but 
the younger woman felt conscience stricken at leav- 


228 Isabel Carleton in the West 

ing the hostess behind for so long. The girls had 
a half-hour with her, however, before they started 
back to the Rader ranch. 

“ I want you to come over and visit with me,” 
Sarah Clark said. “ This was Steve’s day, but I’m 
going to be selfish enough to keep you the next time. 
Can you come soon? ” 

“ Yes, indeed,” answered Isabel. “ Is to-mor- 
row too soon? ” 

“ Not at all. I want to talk with you about books 
and clothes, and all the other things that I don’t 
have a chance to hear much about. You’ve been in 
Europe — Miss Houston told me. Just think of 
it I ” 

“ I’d be awfully glad to tell you about it,” re- 
sponded Isabel whimsically. “ I’ve never had a 
chance to tell any one yet. I can never make the 
family stop long enough to listen.” 

“ I’ll listen,” said Mrs. Clark wistfully. 

“ You’re very rash,” Isabel assured her. “ But 
all right then — to-morrow.” 


CHAPTER XII 


SAPPHIRE AND GOLD 



HE next day, Meta refused to go to the Clarks’ 


with Isabel. “ It’s you that Mrs. Clark wants 
to see,” she said, entirely without rancor. “ I 
know that well enough. You and she have sort of 
‘ found ’ each other, and you ought to have a chance 
to follow up your friendship.” 

“ Oh, but, Meta,” protested the other girl, some- 
what distressed, “ you were invited as much as I was. 
And how do you know that Mrs. Clark doesn’t yearn 
for you as much as she does for me? ” 

“ I know it perfectly well,” Meta answered 
calmly. “ You and she have just naturally gravi- 
tated toward each other, and she’s aching to have a 
good talk with you — not about anything in partic- 
ular, but just about things in general. She and I 
like each other well enough, but we don’t need each 
other particularly. So you go on, and I shan’t go 
to-day.” 

Isabel sighed. “ When you talk in that tone, I 
know that it’s no use to argue with you,” she said. 
“ You aren’t mad, are you? ” 

“ Oh, Isabel, what nonsense ! No, of course I’m 
not mad. And there ’s something that I want to do. 
I want to take a long ride alone — I haven’t had a 
chance for that, you know. I want to gallop, not 


230 Isabel Carleton in the West 

crawl along as one has to with a tenderfoot ” — she 
laughed apologetically — “ and ride and ride till I 
get enough. I love to go dashing across the bench- 
lands, and I haven’t been where I could for more 
than two years. I’ve decided to do that to-day.” 

“ Very well,” said Isabel. “ I think it’s lovely to 
do as one pleases. And I can understand how you 
want to get out and ride alone.” Secretly, she knew 
that Meta was right about Mrs. Clark, too. 
Though Meta was friendly and pleasant, she had 
moods and reserves which made Mrs. Clark less 
frank than she would be with Isabel. “ I’ll tell that 
to our hostess — about the ride — and I think she 
will excuse you. Drop in if you ride over that way, 
won’t you? ” 

“ Yes, I’ll do that.” 

The suitcases had come, and Isabel put on her 
green chambray dress, after pressing it in the 
kitchen. Stephen was to come over for the girls in 
the buckboard. Meta had already ridden away 
when he arrived, and he accepted Isabel’s explana- 
tion without comment. “ I don’t blame her,” was 
all he said. 

On the way to the Clark ranch, Isabel spoke of 
her home people, and then of her sister Fanny. 
“ Fanny’s the flower of the family,” she said enthusi- 
astically. “ She’s really splendid. You’d like her. 
I’m sure. She’s not a bit like me.” 

“ If she were, she wouldn’t be so bad,” mumbled 
Stephen. 

“ Well, she isn’t at all. She’s dark and striking- 
looking — has a lot of temperament, and that sort of 
things — the artistic nature, you know.” 


Sapphire and Gold 


231 


Stephen looked puzzled. “I — I’m afraid I 
shouldn’t know what to say to any one like that. I 
guess I haven’t much ‘ temperament.’ ” 

“ Oh, yes, you have,” Isabel corrected him. 
“ Stacks; but you keep it all covered up. Fanny’s 
bursts right out. She’s only fifteen, you know, and 
perhaps she’ll control it better when she gets older. 
She plays the violin — maybe I mentioned it — and 
we think she’s a genius or semi-genius or something. ‘ 
Anyhow, we have to be pretty careful how we treat 
her and what we say, for we never know when we’re 
harrowing her soul.” 

“ Whew! ” Stephen shifted uneasily on the seat 
of the buckboard. “ I see where I’d keep mum if 
I were around where she was 1 ” 

“ Dear me 1 I didn’t mean to give a false im- 
pression of her. She’s really a sweet normal girl, 
with somewhat more character than girls usually 
have at her age. There’s nothing sentimental about 
her. She’s as straightforward as a little Indian. 
She thinks I’m terribly affected and sentimental, 
but she pretends to be absolutely matter-of-fact.” 

Stephen looked doubtful. “ I think I’d be afraid 
of her,” he said. “ I’m sure I’d always do the 
wrong thing.” 

“ No, you wouldn’t. I hope you’ll know my fam- 
ily sometime. It’s wonderful to have a lovely home 
such as I have. I think I’m one of the most for- 
tunate girls in the world.” 

There was a silence. Isabel felt that Stephen 
might think she meant to make comparisons be- 
tween her home and his. “ Mine has the same spirit 
that I felt in yours,” she said easily: “ freedom and 


232 Isabel Carleton in the W est 

kindness, you know. Those things make the right 
sort of home anywhere.” 

“ They do, I guess,” Stephen answered. “ I 
think that my father and mother are about as splen- 
did as any one’s father and mother could be. And 
you know, if you don’t really — belong, you appre- 
ciate that sort of kindness more than as if you were 
born into it; because they don’t have to do anything 
for you or like you unless they choose.” 

“ I can see how that would be,” Isabel agreed. 
“ And I’m awfully glad you found them, Stephen.” 

“ So’m I.” 

Mrs. Clark was looking for them, and came out 
as they drove into the yard. Isabel hurried to ex- 
plain about Meta, and Mrs. Clark said, “ It’s a won- 
derful day for a long ride on the benches, and I’m 
sure she’ll glory in it. And then she can come over 
here, plenty of other times.” Isabel was relieved 
that the lady took things with such good sense. 

Stephen left them when he went to put up the 
horse and then to work in the garden. Isabel, after 
the first greetings and explanations and common- 
places, got out her crocheting and sat down beside 
the window. Mrs. Clark had a bit of sewing which 
she took from a basket on the table. 

“ We were speaking about homes, coming over,” 
said Isabel, “ and I was saying that yours reminds 
me of my own. It’s so friendly and restful.” 

“ It’s only a little place,” said Sarah Clark. 
“When Stephen first came to us” (“She counts 
everything from that time,” thought the girl), “it 
was still smaller; but we’ve built on the extra bed- 
room and the storeroom and bathroom, so that now 


233 


Sapphire and Gold 

we have all that we really need. But I often wish 
for a better house with larger spaces and nicer fur- 
niture — the kind you see in the magazines, — rugs 
and mahogany pieces, and flowers and all that. I 
suppose the people that you go with have houses of 
that sort, don’t they? ” 

“ Why, y-yes, they do.” Isabel was rather star- 
tled. “ I never thought such an awful lot about it. 
Most of the college people have Oriental rugs and 
mahogany things — but some of them have awfully 
ordinary ugly homes, too. I think it’s the spirit that 
counts in the home, a good deal more than the furni- 
ture.” 

“ Perhaps. But I do love nice things — or I 
know I should if I could have them. And I want 
them nice for Stephen. He’s never had much 
chance to live in a refined way. There were some 
splendid people in Helena who were good to him, 
and had him at their home a great deal — the Sher- 
ratts ; but they’ve moved to Portland. Mr. Sherratt 
was a good friend to us.” 

Isabel found that she had made a mistake in her 
pattern, and was busily unraveling several rows of 
stitches. “ That was fine,” she said absently. 

“ You don’t know Stephen’s real name, do you? ” 
asked Sarah when the crocheting had begun again. 

“ No, I never thought about its being anything 
but Clark , Isabel confessed. 

“ It’s Bransted. Mr. Sherratt, the first year we 
had Stephen — let me see; I think he hadn’t been 
here more than six months or so — discovered some- 
thing in some legal reports about an estate that was 
to be settled in Michigan — and the name was 


234 Isabel Carleton in the West 

Bransted. He asked us if we wanted him to look 
the matter up.” 

“And did you?” Isabel’s crochet-hook stood 
still. 

“ It seemed as if I couldn’t bear the idea of some- 
body’s taking Stephen away from us ; but I thought it 
was only fair to give him a chance to get what be- 
longed to him. So Mr. Sherratt wrote.” Sarah 
paused to thread her needle. 

“ Was it a relative of Stephen? ” Isabel was im- 
patient, for she scented a long-lost rich relative, and 
all sorts of opportunities for the “ stray ” boy. 

“ Yes. But the property didn’t really belong to 
Steve. The man who got it wrote to us, and said 
he would take Stephen if we would give him up right 
away, when he was young.” 

“ Oh ! ” Isabel was disappointed and scornful. 

“ He wouldn’t take him later, he said, when he 
would be ruined by living with coarse people on a 
ranch.” 

“ Oh, no ! He didn’tisay that ! ” 

“ Something of the sort. I kept the letter.” 
Sarah frowned over her careful stitches. 

“ How foolish ! ” cried the girl. 

“ He didn’t think so. Well, we put it up to 
Steve. He had to go then or never. It was a hard 
trial for us, and we gave him his free choice. We 
wanted to do what was right, and not have any- 
thing to regret; so we urged him to go if he wished 
to. It was right that he should have his chance, no 
matter how much it hurt us.” 

Isabel’s crocheting fell into her lap. She stared 
at Mrs. Clark. “ And wouldn’t he go ? ” 


235 


Sapphire and Gold 

‘‘ No. He said he belonged to us, and he was 
going to stay with us — that we cared for him, and 
the other man didn’t. He stood up like a little ma- 
jor — he wasn’t twelve years old — and made his 
choice in life, as brave as any grown-up man could 
have done. Emery — Mr. Clark — said to him, 
‘ Be careful. Don’t be rash, Steve. It’s your last 
chance.’ And Steve spoke up — his eyes were flash- 
ing — ‘ I don’t believe there ever is any last chance ! ’ 
he said. We’ve often laughed about it since.” She 
smiled, but there was a suspicion of tears in her eyes. 

“ Good for Stephen! ” Isabel’s eyes brightened 
with admiration. “ And so he stayed on with you I ” 

“ It would just about have killed us to lose him,” 
said Mrs. Clark in a low tone. 

Isabel took up her work again. “ And haven’t 
the Bransteds done anything for him since?” she 
asked. 

“ They’ve sent him fifty dollars, every New 
Year’s, and last year they made it a hundred. I 
think it was very nice of them, for he really hasn’t 
any claim on them. He’s never spent the money. 
It’s in the bank at the Springs. We thought it would 
help out with his education.” 

“ Yes, of course ; it would.” 

The two women were silent for a few minutes, 
thinking over what had been said. Then Mrs. Clark 
spoke of Isabel’s dress. “ It’s so dainty and sim- 
ple,” she said, “ and so becoming.” 

“ I made it myself,” said Isabel. 

“Oh, did you?” Sarah pondered over her 
work, and then said hesitatingly, “ Perhaps you’d 
help me to decide how to make over a dress I have 


236 Isabel Carleton in the West 

— you see so many more pretty clothes than I do.” 

“ I’d like to, if I can be of any assistance,” said 
Isabel. “ But I’m not sure that I can.” 

Sarah brought out a dark blue silk dress, of the 
style of two years back. The material was good, 
and the dress was in good condition. “ You see,” 
Sarah explained, “ my clothes go out of style before 
I’ve worn them out, because I don’t have much of 
any place to wear them to. I try to keep one good 
thing on hand, so that if I want to go anywhere in a 
hurry, I have something to put on.” 

“ I’m sure we could make something nice out of 
this,” the girl replied. She held up the dress, and 
the two began turning and twisting it, and discussing 
ways and means of using the breadths to the best ad- 
vantage. They became so enthusiastic over the pos- 
sibilities of the gown that Mrs. Clark began to rum- 
mage for patterns. In the end, the sewing machine 
was brought out of the storeroom, and the searh- 
stresses fell to work in earnest, talking and sewing in 
deep oblivion to the passage of time. 

It was almost noon when Mrs. Clark glanced at 
the clock. “Goodness! I’ll have to hurry to get 
dinner,” she cried. “ Fortunately it’s all planned 
and partly prepared.” 

Isabel helped to set the table, and the meal was 
ready when Mr. Clark and Stephen came in, fol- 
lowed by the two hired men. 

There was a little talk about the activities of the 
morning, and then Mr. Clark spoke about the de- 
mand for horses in the European countries. “ It’s 
pretty hard,” he said, “ to see those free, willing crea- 
tures sent over there to suffer and die.” 


237 


Sapphire and Gold 

“ But men are suffering and dying,” Isabel fal- 
tered. She had not thought about the horses in the 
war. 

“ Yes.” Mr. Clark had evidently thought about 
the horses a good deal. “ But men make their wars, 
and the horses don’t. They have to take what 
comes to them, and they don’t have any vote.” 

“ I don’t believe some of the men in the European 
countries have any more to say than the horses, about 
what they shall do,” said Isabel. 

“ Or understand any better what it’s all about,” 
added Mrs. Clark with a sigh. “ Let’s hope that 
when the war is over, that very sort of people will 
have more liberty and the right to develop more in- 
telligence.” 

“ If they don’t,” Mr. Clark answered, “ all this 
slaughter will be in vain.” 

“ It can’t be in vain,” Isabel remarked miserably. 

Some good must come out of it.” 

“ Good can come out only in proportion to what 
is put in,” said Emery Clark in a hard tone. 

“ Then the United States isn’t going to get any- 
thing good out of it? ” Isabel queried. 

“ Not unless we put something in. And we’re 
going to. The time will come when we’ll have to 
make our sacrifices — men as well as horses.” 

Isabel caught her breath and looked at Sarah 
Clark. The two hired men colored under their tan, 
and glanced uneasily at each other, as if they were 
wondering which was to be sacrificed. 

Emery Clark was going on. “ There are plenty 
of young strong fellows who will go into it intelli- 
gently, not driven in by an autocratic government — 


238 Isabel Carleton in the West 

and it’s that sort that will win the war. How about 
it, Steve? ” He turned to the youth, who had sat 
silently listening to what had been said. 

“ I’m willing to help,” said Stephen, “ but I’m 
not sure that you and mother would be very keen 
to see me starting off.” 

Sarah restrained a shudder. “ I think it will be 
over before you’re old enough to be called,” she 
said as lightly as she could. “ And just think,” she 
continued, to change the subject, “ I was going to 
hear all about Miss Carleton’s trip to Europe, and 
we’ve been so busy with dress-making that I haven’t 
heard a word.” 

“ I think you’ve been saved a boring experience, 
if you ask me,” said Isabel. 

After dinner, Stephen played the victrola, and 
they all sat listening, Emery with his eyes on the 
floor. There were some good records, and some 
funny ones, which Stephen chuckled over, glancing 
at Isabel to see whether she were going to be appre- 
ciative or scornful. Isabel chuckled, too, much to 
the lad’s relief. 

When the men had gone, Sarah and Isabel hurried 
to wash the dishes, and then they rushed back to 
their sewing. “ I’m surprised to see that you know 
so much about this sort of thing,” said Mrs. Clark. 
“ A college girl is hardly expected to, is she? ” 

“ Oh, I’ve had a lot of Domestic Science and 
Household Arts, in the high school and in college, 
too,” the girl said in explanation. “ I thought I 
told you.” She was basting a sleeve together as she 
spoke. 

“ It’s fine that you can have so much practical 


Sapphire and Gold 239 

training, along with the academic studies,” com- 
mented Mrs. Clark. 

“ I love to work with my hands,” Isabel rejoined. 
“ And oh, I must tell you about my arts and crafts 
work.” She launched into the story of her silver- 
smithing, and the pleasure she had taken in making 
simple pendants and rings. “ It’s the nicest work 
there is,” she asserted; “ unless writing books might 
be a little nicer.” 

‘‘ Do you really make jewelry? ” asked Sarah 
Clark, standing with her shears poised above the 
cloth on the table. 

‘‘ Why, yes, surely. I made this ring with the 
abalone shell setting.” She showed her little- 
finger with a silver ring on it. “ I can do better 
than that now. I brought my tools along, and I’ve 
been doing a few things at the camp, this summer. 
I want to have some things ready for the Molly 
Ramsay Fund in the fall.” 

“ What is that? ” Mrs. Clark looked interested. 

Isabel talked fast, and her eyes grew bright as 
she told the tale of the beginnings of the Fund, — 
the maid that she didn’t have when she went to 
Europe, and the money which had been unexpectedly 
paid to Cousin Eunice Everard, and various gifts 
from Faculty women. And then she went on to 
tell of what the Fund had done for girls who needed 
help in getting through school. “ It’s wonderful to 
see what a little help will do for people,” she said in 
conclusion. 

“ Yes, it is.” Sarah nodded over the cuff which 
she was cutting out. “ It’s beautiful to see people 
getting their chance in life.” She was thoughtful as 


240 Isabel Garleton in the West 

she pinned the cuffs together, with strips for the 
facing. “ You’re going to make some things and 
then sell them — is that the idea? ” she asked. 

“ Yes. There is a chance toward Christmas, and 
sometimes before. People come in to the Crafts 
room, and see the things and want to buy them. I 
sold a ring for enough to buy quite a lot of silver 
and an inexpensive stone or two. And I made 
mother a lovely pendant — if I do say it — set with 
a turquoise.” 

Sarah threaded a needle with basting-thread and 
then stood absently with it in her hand. “ Did you 
ever seen any Montana sapphires? ” she asked sud- 
denly. 

“ Oh, yes I Meta Houston has a ring set with 
them. They’re lovely — paler than the other kind, 
but beautiful, I think.” 

“ Would they be all right to make your jewelry 
of?” 

“ I’ve been aching for some to make up, but they 
were so expensive in Helena that I thought I couldn’t 
afford any.” Isabel was puzzled at the lady’s ques- 
tions. 

Sarah dropped her needle on the table. “ I have 
a wonderful idea,” she said eagerly. Her face was 
lighted with enthusiasm. “ I want to show you 
something.” 

She went into her bedroom, while Isabel sat 
breathlessly waiting. “ Look,” said Sarah when she 
came back. She held a tiny box in one hand, and 
the cover in the other. 

Isabel peeped into the box. On white cotton- 
batting lay a half-dozen blue stones, not large, but 


241 


Sapphire and Gold 

clear and sparkling. “ Why, they’re Montana sap- 
phires, aren’t they? ” said Isabel in a dazed way. 
“ They’re beauties ! ” 

“ Yes, that’s what they are,” Sarah answered 
almost solemnly. 

“ Why, where did you get them? ” 

“ Well, one time Stephen was up in the mountains 
with the Sherratts — they had a claim up there. 
Mr. Sherratt is a well-educated man, and he knows 
a lot about geology and such things, and he knew 
the uncut sapphires when he saw them. They found 
quite a lot, and Steve found these himself. The 
Sherratts insisted on his keeping them.” 

“They don’t ‘grow’ like this, do they?” asked 
Isabel rather inanely. She took up the blue drops 
in her fingers. 

“ Oh, no, of course not. Mr. Sherratt sent 
Steve’s with his to have them cut, and it didn’t cost so 
very much. Emery and Steve and I put it in to- 
gether. They thought I ought to have something 
made of them sometime. They’re really pretty, 
don’t you think? ” 

“ Exquisite ! ” Isabel was wondering what Mrs. 
Clark meant to do with them. 

“ I thought — if I gave these, could you make 
them into rings, and sell them for the Molly Ramsay 
Fund?” 

Isabel let the stones fall into the box and clasped 
her hands. Could I? That would be magnifi- 
cent. But do you want to give them up — when 
Stephen gave them to you? ” A doubt clouded her 
face as she spoke. 

“ He won’t mind. Yes, I do want to do some- 


242 Isabel Carleton in the West 

thing for that fund.” Mrs. Clark’s voice was more 
eager than ever. “ I never had a chance to go to 
college — I hardly dared to think about it, though I 
studied and learned as much as I could by myself. 
But I do want other girls to have an education, and 
I’d like to help a little bit if I could. These aren’t 
of any great value unless they’re made into some- 
thing. It isn’t a very grand gift,” she laughed. 
“ The value is the pleasure I get out of it.” 

“ It will help wonderfully to have them. Thank 
you a thousand times.” The girl took up the stones, 
and held them to the light. “ I’d love to work with 
them, and I’d do the very best I could to make some- 
thing that would be worthy of them.” 

“ Then you take them, and do what you think 
right,” said Sarah, “ and sell the jewelry, and add 
the money to the Fund after you’ve taken out the 
cost of the silver or gold or whatever it is you use.” 
Her plump youthful face was happy and her cheeks 
were red. 

“ I think you’re splendid to do this,” Isabel re- 
peated. “ I shall wait till I get back to Jefferson 
before I do anything with them for I want Miss 
Phelps — she’s our director — to show me about the 
work, and see that I get it just perfect. I’ve never 
worked much with gold, and I think that gold would 
be best for these, don’t you? ” 

“ I haven’t any idea. Now, you take the box and 
put it with your hat, so that you won’t forget it.” 

“As if I could!” Isabel put her arm around 
Mrs. Clark’s waist and kissed her. “ You’re a 
dear,” she said. Then she went to put the box into 
her cross-stitched linen handbag. 


243 


Sapphire and Gold 

The two women went back to their sewing, and 
each felt a glow that cast a radiance upon the cloth 
which they were handling. They said little, while 
their hands sped with the work. 

When Stephen came in, they had made good 
progress, and were ready to stop and gossip with 
him. Isabel went to the door and looked out upon 
the great sweep of the sky, and the stretch of the 
tawny benches. “ It’s heavenly here,” she sighed. 
“ How much it must mean to you ! ” She had for- 
gotten the isolation of this little ranch-house in the 
bottom-lands. 

“ How would you like to spend the winter here? ” 
asked Sarah Clark in a tense tone. 

“ Mm-m,” Isabel stammered, “I — I’m afraid I 
shouldn’t know what to do with myself. I do have 
a very gay time, in spite of studying. I’m sure I’m 
spoiled, but I can’t help it.” She was a bit ashamed 
of having brought up the subject. 

“ Girls ought to have a good time,” said Sarah 
Clark. “ And boys, too.” She laid her hand on 
Stephen’s shoulder. 

Stephen turned to her with a reassuring grin. “ I 
have one grand good time here,” he said. ‘‘ You 
don’t need to worry about me.” 

Just then they saw Meta dashing along the line 
of sky at the top of a long “ bench,” and presently 
she clattered over the bridge and rode up to the 
door. She was disheveled, but brilliant with the 
joy of her day of freedom. 

“ I just came to say ‘ How do you do? ’ and get a 
drink of water,” she explained, “ and then I’ll ride 
back to the Raders’.” 


244 Isabel Carleton in the W est 

She did not stay long, but rode off after a few 
minutes, promising to come the next day with Isabel. 
“ She’s a very spirited girl, isn’t she?” said Mrs. 
Clark, watching the graceful figure until it disap- 
peared beyond a knoll. 

“ Yes,” Isabel replied, “ energetic and ambitious 
and high-tempered. She has a great deal of ability. 
We think she’s going to be a fine actress if she goes 
on the professional stage, as she hopes to do.” 

Stephen and his mother were suitably impressed. 
Isabel told them of Meta’s success with the college 
plays in which she had appeared. “ How college 
does bring out one’s talents, and develop one’s abili- 
ties,” said Mrs. Clark, looking hard at Stephen. 

“ I don’t know what it could do for them if they 
hadn^t any talents or abilities,” said the young man 
frivolously. “ Oh, Miss Carleton — ” 

“ Isabel.” 

“Well, Miss Isabel, then — you haven’t heard 
Old Montana yet, have you? ” 

“ I guess not,” Isabel answered. “ What is it — 
a song? ” 

“Yes, the State song — it goes to the tune of 
Mandalay. You know that, don’t you? ” 

“ On the Road to Mandalay, 

Where the flying-fishes play,” 

Isabel was humming. “ Is that the tune? ” 

“ Yes, that’s it. Mother, you play, and we’ll 
sing it.” Stephen ran to open the organ which stood 
in a corner of the sitting-room, and to get out the 
music for the performers. 

By peering over Mrs. Clark’s shoulder, Isabel was 


Sapphire and Gold 


245 


able to join in almost from the first. She had always 
liked the swing of the tune, and now she delighted 
in the words : 

Take me back to old Montana, 

Where there’s plenty room and air; 

Where there’s cotton-wood and pine-tree, 
Bitter-root and prickly-pear. 

Where the old sun-tanned prospector 
Dreams of wealth and pans his dirt; 

Where the sleepy night-herd puncher 
Sings to steers and plies his quirt. 

They came out lustily with the chorus: 

Take me where there’s diamond hitches. 

Ropes and brands and cartridge belts ; 

Where the boys wear shaps for breeches. 

Flannel shirts and Stetson felts. 

Land of alkali and copper, 

Land of sapphire and of gold, — 

Take me back to dear Montana, 

Let me die there when I’m old! 

‘‘ Oh, play that last again,” begged the girl. She 
wanted to sing over again the two lines : 

Land of alkali and copper. 

Land of sapphire and of gold.” 

“ It means the sapphire blue horizon and the gold 
sunshine, as well as the real things, doesn’t it? ” she 
remarked when they had finished. 

“ I think so,” smiled Mrs. Clark. “ We like it 
out here in Montana. It catches the spirit of things. 
Back East, I suppose they’d think it was silly.” 


246 Isabel Carleton in the West 

“ I like it immensely,” said Isabel. “ Fm so glad 
you let me hear it. I’m going to learn the words. 
And now I remember, I’ve heard Meta humming 
that and putting in some different words from the 
ones in Mandalay, but I never realized that it was 
Old Montana that she was singing. She ought to 
have told me. But now that I think of it, I dare 
say I’ve teased her so much about being crazy over 
the West that she never said half as much as she 
wanted to. I’ll never jolly anybody about being a 
Wild-West ‘ fan ’ again.” 

“ Better not,” Stephen warned her. “ You might 
have to suffer the consequences.” 

“ And now I ought to go,” murmured Isabel, look- 
ing at the clock. 

“ Oh, stay for supper,” coaxed Mrs. Clark. 
“ We’re going to have hot johnny-cake and wild 
plum preserves. Maybe you’d have something bet- 
ter at Mrs. Rader’s, but anyhow, we’d like to have 
you stay.” 

“ Then I will,” said Isabel. 

It was late before she finally got started. She 
pinched the little box in her handbag, to make sure 
that it was there. “ I’m taking away something 
very precious,” she said in a low tone to Sarah. 

“ I’m keeping something very precious, too,” 
Sarah replied seriously. “You’ll come again- — 
every day, if you can while you’re here. And Miss 
Houston is to come, too.” 

“ Yes, yes.” 

Stephen took Isabel back in the buckboard, as he 
had brought her. Dusk was falling over the long 
uneven bench-lands. “ Oh, such color ! ” the girl ex- 


Sapphire and Gold 


247 


claimed. A dull blue haze was over everything, and 
the moon was rising through it, large and orange- 
tawny, lighting the tops of shadowed knolls and 
flats. On the edge of an eminence, a clump of 
cottonwoods showed a blurred outline against the 
sky, or a supernatural looking horse stalked blackly 
along the horizon. 

Isabel was rapturously silent for some time, and 
then she remembered to tell her companion about 
the sapphires which she was carefully holding in her 
lap. He listened quietly, his eyes on the horse’s 
ears. “You don’t mind, do you?” asked the girl 
anxiously. “ Would you rather she had kept 
them? ” 

“ I’m glad she found such a good use for them,” 
the young man replied quickly. “ Nothing pleases 
me better than to please her.” 

“ I thought you’d have that feeling about it.” 
Isabel spoke with relief. “ I’ll try to make the 
rings as near perfection as I can. They ought to 
bring quite a good sum. And oh, Stephen ! ” 
“What?” 

“ Don’t you think it would be splendid if I made 
a ring for Mrs. Clark, with one of the sapphires? 
It seems as if she ought not to give them all away.” 

“ It would be great, if you really want to do it. 
I’ll furnish the silver or gold. Is it gold that you 
use? ” 

“ I ought to, for this. It would cost about three 
dollars or possibly four for the gold; One starts 
out with more than the finished article actually 
shows. The value of a thing like that is in the 
workmanship and the time it takes.” 


248 Isabel Carleton in the West 

“ Well, when you get around to make it, I’ll be 
there with the goods.” 

“ It will be a surprise to her. Do you think she 
will like it? ” 

“ I should say. She’s mighty fond of pretty 
things, but she doesn’t have very many.” 

The conspiracy occupied them until they reached 
the Raders’. They parted with a quickened sense 
of their rapidly developing comradeship. 

The week of the girls’ stay in the ranch country 
passed swiftly. Nearly every day there was some 
new thing to do. One morning, Stephen proposed 
that he should take them to the ice-cave, and show 
them “ Mother Nature’s Refrigerator Company.” 
This was a cave in the foothills, at some distance 
from the house, where the ice never completely 
melted, and where there was plenty to be had for ice- 
cream in the warmest day of summer. It was here 
that Isabel first saw the big purple anemones which 
abound in the mountains in the spring. They had 
passed from the slopes, long since ; but in the region 
of the ice-cave, spring beauties and anemones still 
flowered, thinking, no doubt, that the cool blast from 
the cave was the last of the winter winds. The 
great delicate blossoms of pale lavender or deeper 
mauve, with their hairy calyxes, clustered about the 
mouth of the cave, and distracted Isabel’s attention 
from the wonders within. She was instantly think- 
ing of a poem which she would write about these 
flowers; but she had no time for it then, for Stephen 
was climbing down into the well-like cave, with a 
pail which was to bring up the pilfered ice. 

When she looked over the edge, she could see the 


249 


Sapphire and Gold 

ice gleaming in waves and ridges, as in a kind of 
Aladdin’s cave of jewels. Stephen was hacking off 
bits of it, and soon filled the pail, which he fastened 
to a rope, and which Meta and Isabel pulled bump- 
ing and hopping to the surface, and covered quickly 
with old carpet to keep it from melting. Two other 
pails were filled, and then Stephen scrambled out 
with red chilled hands and tousled hair. The ice, 
swiftly conveyed in the buckboard, yielded delicious 
ice-cream, under Sarah Clark’s supervision. 

That evening, Isabel wrote the poem about the 
anemones, and put it away to show to Rodney when 
she went back to the camp. She did not have much 
time to think about Rodney, but no^ and then her 
mind reverted to the three cabins on the hillside, 
and she wondered how they seemed when deserted 
by their feminine occupants. She knew that the two 
young engineers were busy with their renewed at- 
tempt to build a weir which should resist the attacks 
of mountain streams; but she suspected that the 
evenings were lonely for them, after the gayety 
which had prevailed when the whole party had been 
there. However, a letter from Rodney found its 
way to her, assuring her that all was well, except that 
it was “ doggoned lonesome ” and the coyotes 
howled louder than ever around the hills. 

There was a trip to the sheep country, where the 
sight of thousands of sheep grazing or huddled into 
a corral moved Isabel to interest and amaze; and 
another excursion to a cattle ranch yielded a good 
deal of instruction and diversion. The intervals of 
jaunting about were filled with the excitement of 
seeing bronchos broken in the corrals at the Clark 


2^0 Isabel Carleton in the West 

ranch — a fascinating business which Isabel rated 
high above any theatrical performance she had ever 
seen. She never tired of it, and always came back 
to it with a zest which amused the ranch-folk, to 
whom it was an old story. 

Then the letter came from Mr. Houston, telling 
them the particular day upon which he would arrive 
to take the two young women “ home.” Suitcases 
were packed and sent on by stage. Meta invited 
Stephen to go back with them, and he accepted with 
alacrity. On the night before they were to start 
back, Emery and Sarah rode over in the buckboard 
to say good-by. 

“ It has done me so much good to know you two,” 
said Sarah. “ It has been a glimpse of the outside 
world — something new and different.” 

“ You’re coming to Jefferson to visit, you know,” 
answered Isabel. “ Mother would love to have 
you.” 

“ I’d be more than delighted,” said Sarah, “ but 
I don’t suppose I’d ever get there. Wouldn’t it be 
rather presumptuous of me to go when I don’t know 
your people? ” 

“ It wouldn’t take you more than two minutes to 
feel as if you’d always known them,” asserted Isabel. 
“You’d like them all — father and mother and 
Fanny and Celia. They’re dears. I don’t want 
you to judge my family by me.” 

“ She’s a pretty fair sample,” put in Meta. 
“ Anyhow, you must come. I’d want you some of 
the time, you know.” 

“ We’ll see,” responded Sarah. “ Emery would 
hardly think that he could spare me. I’m afraid.” 


251 


Sapphire and Gold 

“ He’s to come, too. Of course I meant that.” 
Isabel was embarrassed at her awkwardness. 

“ I don’t know how I’d fit into a professor’s 
circle,” said Emery with his slow, humorous smile; 
“ I might get to swinging my lariat around on the 
campus, or come to a tea-party with my trousers 
tucked into my boots, or start talking about the price 
of steers when somebody was giving a high-brow 
spiel on Shakespeare.” 

Isabel laughed. “ Oh, no danger. And it would 
do them good if you did.” 

It gave Isabel a pang to come to the moment of 
saying good-by to these kind people, whom she had 
liked so much. “ I feel sure we’ll meet again,” she 
said. 

“ So do I,” Emery Clark rejoined. “ Friends 
can’t lose each other.” 

The grasp of Emery’s hand and Sarah’s kiss upon 
her cheek were assurances that she would be remem- 
bered. She was thankful for them the next morn- 
ing when the hurt of leaving the ranches actually 
came. 

The long ride back to the home gulch was easier 
than it had been before. The joyous welcome from 
the family was very sweet to the traveler, and 
she felt the delight of the home-coming in Rodney’s 
low remark as he lifted her from the saddle, — 
“Great Caesar, how we’ve missed you! It seems 
as if the sun were just coming up instead of going 
down I ” 


CHAPTER XIII 


DECISIONS 


HERE was such a babel of talk that Isabel did 



not have a chance for an extended inquiry- 
and-reply with any one, though there were many 
questions she would have liked to ask, as to how 
things had been going during the absence of the 
women. 

After a word — “ It’s beautiful to see you again,” 
and “We must have a good talk” — with Mrs. 
Houston, Isabel slipped away to read her letters in 
the Ritz. She finished with a letter from Fanny, 
who wrote in a characteristic way: 

Dear Isabel: 

It’s awfully hot, and I’m out on the back porch, 
writing on a scratch pad. Mother is worrying for 
fear we don’t write to you often enough, but I tell 
her she needn’t fuss, for probably you’re too busy 
having hair-breadth escapes to waste any attention 
on poor US. Every letter we get from you seems 
to have a grizzly bear in it, or a cloud-burst, or a 
horse falling over a precipice, or some such little 
thing. You’ll find home and mother pretty tame, 
after all those Wild-West performances. 

We just jog along here in a perfectly safe and 
sane way, with nothing whatever to escape from. 
Anna Paul and I are invited to stay for the week-end 
at the Mitchells’ cottage, and Howard Sutro and a 


Decisions 


253 


friend of his from Winona are going to be there. 
We expect to be on and in the water most of the 
time. 

Grammy was in (not in the water), one day this 
week, and she brought us a lot of gooseberries, and 
mother and Melissy have made preserves until they 
are getting so that they look just like gooseberries 
themselves — sort of fat and round and green and 
purple, you know what I mean. Melissy has a new 
green gingham dress, which increases the ilusion. 

[“ Oh, dear, only one sighed Isabel.] 

I forgot to tell you in my last letter that I saw 
that Miss Calderwood — the one who’s staying for 
the summer session, you know, and she looked just 
fine — not so kind of pinched and sad. . . . 

Celia misses you a lot, especially at bedtime. She 
gets fearfully mad at me because I can’t tell her 
favorite stories precisely as you do. If I say that 
the princess had on a blue dress and a gold crown, 
she nearly has a fit, and insists that that particular 
princess had on a pink dress and a pearl crown — 
Isabel said so. I think she’s tod big to have stories 
told to her, anyway. I’m sure I never did at her 
age. Mother babies her too much, I think, because 
she’s the youngest. I told mother so, and she just 
laughed. 

I meet the D’Alberts sometimes and do you know 
that baby of theirs can walk. It totters along on 
its two little legs and squawks out V^la, and Bong 
joor, and other French stuff in the killingest way. I 
should think . . . 

Isabel glanced through the rest of the letter, and 


254 


Isabel Carleton in the West 


thrust it back into the envelope. Supper was on the 
table; and she felt concerned as to whether Stephen 
were being looked after. Stepping out gf the Ritz, 
she found Rodney carrying a pail of water up the 
hill. 

“ Don’t fall down and break your crown,” she 
warned him. 

“ I won’t. But say, Isabel, there^s something I 
want to tell you. I’ll be back in a minute.” He dis- 
appeared into the cook-cabin, and then came out 
again. “ Mr. Chelford was here while you were 
gone,” he said. 

Isabel looked blank. “ Mr. Chelford? ” Then 
she recollected. “ Oh, he’s your employer, isn’t 
he?” 

“ Yes. He surprised us by dropping in, one fore- 
noon.” 

“ Well. What did he think of the way that 
things were going? ” Isabel was almost as appre- 
hensive as if she had been the subject of an inquisi- 
tion, herself. 

“ He was pleased. He looked the weir over, and 
said it was all right. We had a long talk with him 
and got pretty well acquainted. He’s a fine fellow.” 

“ He didn’t scold about the first weir? ” 

“ Not a bit. It was hardly mentioned. But it 
dawned on me after he had gone that in his clever 
way he had put us both through a hard grilling — 
found out everything we’d ever thought in the dead 
watches of the night. He was sizing us up in good 
shape.” 

“ I’m sure he didn’t find out anything to your 
discredit,” the girl said loyally. 


Decisions 


255 

“ I hope not. Apparently he was satisfied, for 
he’s written to offer us both jobs for next year.” 

“Oh! Out here — in the West? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ How does that strike you? ” Isabel repressed 
her own feelings. 

“ It’s tempting.” 

“ Would you think that you could leave college? ” 

“ I don’t know. I should terribly like to be in- 
dependent.” 

Isabel’s eyes met his, and then turned away at a 
call from Mrs. Houston, who was complaining with 
mock bitterness that she couldn’t get any one to come 
and eat. 

After supper, Meta and George strolled away 
without any excuses. “ They can’t wait. They 
want to talk everything over,” thought Isabel. She 
helped Mrs. Houston with the dishes, telling all 
about the visit to the ranches, while she dried the 
plates and cups. 

She had another snatch of conversation with Rod- 
ney when he was building a camp fire : the night had 
grown chilly. 

“How long before you have to decide?” she 
asked. 

“ A week or so. There’s no hurry.” 

“ It’s fine that he wants you,” she said dubiously. 

“ I’d hate not to be back in Jefferson.” Rodney 
lighted a match and carefully applied it to the dry 
grass and shavings. The light flared up and 
showed his face, meditative and sober. 

“I — I’d be sorry too.” 

“ Glad you feel that way.” 


256 Isabel Carleton in the West 

He had more to say, but just then Stephen saun- 
tered up shyly, with his hands in his coat pocket. 
“ He’s afraid he’s de trop/^ Isabel said to herself. 
She felt anxious lest he should be ill at ease. 
“ Come on up to the fire,” she said. “ And let’s all 
sit down and talk a little.” Mr. and Mrs. Houston 
were in the tent, George and Meta were nowhere to 
be seen; so the three had things all to themselves. 

The Middle-Westerners began questioning the 
lad, to draw him out. “ I suppose you’ve had a lot 
of interesting adventures, out there on the ranch,” 
said Rodney. 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” Stephen answered; “ I guess 
you fellows back in your country have had just as 
exciting things happen to you. Ranch life is about 
the same as any other.” 

“ But your mother said you’d had some exciting 
experiences,” said Isabel. 

“ Oh, she thinks I’m so important that if I rode 
to Helena and back, it would be an adventure,” said 
Stephen. He tossed a pine cone into the fire. 

“ Oh, tell us that experience at Fort Logan. You 
said you’d tell me, and we never got around to it,” 
cried Isabel. She was really thinking more about 
Rodney’s problem than she was about Fort Logan. 

“ That was when father captured the express rob- 
bers,” Stephen replied. “ They were the last des- 
peradoes that we’ve had in our part of the country — 
the West is pretty tame, now, you know.” 

“Were you one of the posse? the older man 
inquired. 

Stephen chuckled. “ I was right in the thick of 
it. It was almost like a story-book. Believe me, I 


Decisions 


257 


was one proud kid to be mixed up in such doings. 
You couldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole for a 
month afterward.” 

“ How did it happen? ” 

“ I was a little chap — this was six or seven years 
ago — and A1 Trowbridge and I had a ‘ rong-de- 
voo,’ as we called it. A1 lived five miles away, and 
we were chums. He’s gone East now, to attend 
college and stay four years. Well, this ‘ rong-de- 
voo ’ was in one of those empty houses at Fort 
Logan.” 

“ They looked awfully spooky,” Isabel nodded. 

“ We kept it a secret, and used to ride over there 
on the sly, and make a fire, and roast things on the 
hearth, and play we were some sort of mysterious 
characters.” 

“ Kid-fashion,” assented Rodney. 

“ Yes. We thought it was great stuff. One day 
in February, I think it was, we rode over, and we 
were squabbling on the way, and got so mad we 
wouldn’t speak to each other. And when we got fo 
the door of our house, we found two desperadoes 
there, playing cards for the money they’d stolen.” 

“ Did you burst right in on them? ” queried 
Isabel. 

“ They hadn’t heard us, and we were in the house 
before they knew it. They wouldn’t let us get away, 
for fear we’d tell some one. We were scared just 
about into conniptions — two little chaps, you 
know — ” 

“ I guess yes,” interpolated Rodney. 

“ They stuck us into a corner, and began to talk 
about putting us upstairs and nailing the door.” 


258 Isabel Carleton in the West 


“ Pleasant talk! ” 

“ And just when we were ready to faint, who 
should appear on the scene but my father ! He cov- 
ered the two robbers with his revolver. Then he 
made me take one of the revolvers from the table, 
where the robbers had laid it, and help to guard the 
men; and he sent A 1 to tell the Raders. It seemed 
like two hundred years that we stayed there watch- 
ing those fellows. They were waiting for a chance 
to bowl us over and skip, but we never gave it to 

them. I thought my arm would drop off, but I 
was game, because Emery Clark was watching 
me. I’d have hung by my toes all day if he told 
me to.” 

“ I know,” said Isabel, remembering the way in 
which Emery Clark had looked at Stephen when he 
thought that no one noticed. 

“ The Raders came and tied the desperadoes up, 
and the next day they took ’em to jail at the Springs. 
You see that was a wild adventure, for a kid like 
me. I don’t suppose anything could ever happen to 
me that would make me feel more set-up than I was 

then. ” 

“ A small boy could ask nothing more,” laughed 
Rodney. “ I should have burst with pride if any- 
thing like that had happened to me at that age.” 

“ I nearly burst, all right.” Stephen had for- 
gotten his self-consciousness, and was enjoying his 
own reminiscences. “ There was another time that 
was not so glorious for me. The cow-punchers were 
swimming some steers across the river, and I was 
there as big as life, on Scratch Gravel, wading around 
where it was kind of shallow. A big steer came 


Decisions 


259 


alongside, and without thinking what I was doing, I 
jumped across onto his back. He turned and rushed 
out of the water and up the bank, before I could 
jump off, and he galloped all over the range with me 
yelling like a Comanche and hanging onto his neck. 
I thought I was a goner, sure thing.” 

Isabel laughed merrily. “ How did you escape? 
I infer that you did escape.” 

“ Oh, yes. I fell off, after a while, and the steer’s 
hoof gave me a crack on the head as he skallyhooted 
away: There’s a little scar there yet.” He turned 
his head to one side, and in the flare of the fire Isabel 
saw a small white scar in the fine fair hair. 
“ Mother was sure I was killed, but I was as good 
as ever in a day or two.” 

“ A ranch must be a great place for a boy,” said 
Rodney. 

“ I wouldn’t give up having lived on one, for 
anything.” 

“ But you don’t want to stay there always, do 
you?” asked Isabel. She recollected that Stephen 
had his problem to work out, too. 

‘‘ I’m not sure. I’d have to think it over, if I 
had a chance to do anything else.” 

Mr. and Mrs. Houston came out of the tent just 
then, and joined the trio at the fire. Isabel was 
tired after her ride, and went to bed early. 

Meta came into the Ritz after Isabel was in bed. 
She pulled the curtains and lighted a candle. She 
had an absent, preoccupied look. “ Awfully exciting 
about the boys, isn’t it? ” said Isabel sleepily. 

“ Yes, it is,” answered Meta. “ I’m glad they’ve 
been successful.” 


260 Isabel Carleton in the West 

“ Mm-huh,” Isabel murmured. “ Do you think 
George will stay? ” 

“ He hasn’t quite decided yet.” Meta began to 
take the hairpins out of her hair. 

Isabel was too sleepy to pursue the conversation 
further. She thought, “ What a lot of decisions 
there are to make! ” as she was drifting off into 
slumber. 

The Houstons had already made their decisions 
about their new home in Seattle. Isabel had gath- 
ered as much, but forebore to ask questions. The 
next forenoon, Mrs. Houston told her more about it. 

“We have taken a delightful apartment — new 
and fresh, and with a wonderful view; and we’re to 
try that instead of a house.” 

“ Ha ! the lady has her way,” cried the girl. 
“ And does that mean that you are to keep on with 
your school? ” 

“ I believe it does.” Mrs. Houston looked ex- 
tremely contented. 

“ I’m just as glad as I can be. I knew you wanted 
to, like everything.” 

“Yes, I did; but I wasn’t intending to press the 
matter if Mr. Houston were not perfectly willing 
that I should go on. I thought he had a right to his 
opinion.” 

“ And so he must be willing, I judge.” 

“ He says so. He told me on the train, when we 
were started for Seattle, that he had thought the 
matter over, and he didn’t see why I might not keep 
on being active and useful, even though I had ‘ done 
him the honor ’ of marrying him.” Mrs. Houston 
smiled at the remembrance of this happy adjustment 


Decisions 


261 


of her uncertainties. “ It’s quite a conversion for 
him; but he is really sincere, and he wants me to do 
as I wish. I’m more grateful to him than I can 
say.” 

“ It means a lot, I know.” Isabel had entered 
very seriously into the complications of the Houston 
family problem, for she realized that it had a larger 
significance than the mere comfort or mental ease of 
two or three people. It bore a relation to the way 
in which women are regulating their lives at the 
present day. 

Mrs. Houston went on, explaining how she had 
succeeded in engaging a competent maid — she 
didn’t want a Chinaman around the house; and how 
she had taken some steps for the furnishing of the 
rooms. 

“ Oh, tell me about it! ” exclaimed Isabel. 

Half an hour later, they were still deep in the dis- 
cussion of rugs and chintzes and mirrors and Chi- 
nese embroideries, when they came out of the tent, 
and found Stephen strolling up from the work- 
camp. 

“ Let’s take this young man up on the cliff and 
show him the view,” said Mrs. Houston in her 
friendly way. 

They climbed up to the promontory, which was a 
favorite look-out. After fifteen minutes of talk 
about the view and the valley and the weir, Mrs. 
Houston said cheerfully to Stephen, “ I’ve just been 
settling my problems to my satisfaction, and telling 
Isabel about how things have come out.” In a few 
words she related the result of the trip to Seattle. 
And then she said in a manner which many young 


262 Isabel Carleton in the West 

people had found invited confidences, “ Isabel said 
that you had a problem to settle, too.’’ 

“ I have,” said Stephen in his straightforward 
way. “ I’ve been thinking about it pretty hard since 
I’ve met these college folks, and heard them talk of 
what college does for them. I’d kept putting off 
facing the thing, but now I see I’ve got to.” It was 
a long speech, and he flushed as he spoke. 

‘‘ What do you want to do? ” asked Mrs. Hous- 
ton, turning to look at him. “ I think it’s always 
just as well to face our own real desires and ambi- 
tions, and then see how near we can come to them.” 

“Well,” Stephen was doubtful — “I thought I 
ought not to leave my father and mother alone on 
the ranch. They’ve been good to me, and it seems 
as if I could give up something for them.” 

“ Do you mean you’re going to stay on the ranch 
from now on, without going any further with your 
education? ” asked Isabel, as gently as she could, not 
wishing to belittle such a project if it appeared to be 
best for all who were concerned. 

“ I don’t know.” The boy’s face was troubled. 
“ Of course it seems too bad not to have any more 
education than I have; but if I stay on the ranch and 
break horses, and ride around for strays, I don’t 
need to know anything about trigonometry and 
French and sociology, do I? ” He hid his real feel- 
ings under a grin. 

“ Perhaps not,” admitted Mrs. Houston. “ But 
are you really satisfied to give up studying now? ” 

“ No, he isn’t, and Mrs. Clark isn’t going to be 
satisfied to have him do it, either,” burst out Isabel. 
“ I never saw any one who believed in education more 


Decisions 


263 

than she does. She wants you to have as good an 
education as you can afford to get. She wouldn’t 
be happy to have you settle down on the ranch, much 
as she wants you to be with her.” 

“ I know she wouldn’t,” said Stephen bluntly. 
He was throwing pebbles over the edge of the cliff. 
“ But she’s had a kind of a lonely life — I can see 
that now, and if I could make it easier by stay- 
ing — ” 

Isabel was thinking of Meta’s struggle last year; 
of her intention of sacrificing herself, and the way 
in which her renunciation had proved unnecessary. 
“ Your mother wouldn’t accept such a sacrifice from 
you,” she said. 

“ I can’t leave them altogether, can I? ” muttered 
the youth. “ Just cut them off, and go and shift 
for myself? ” 

“ Why, no.” Isabel was thinking fast. “ But 
oh, Stephen! Listen. At Jefferson we have one of 
the finest agricultural schools in the country ^ — a 
part of the University, you know. Why don’t you 
come on to Jefferson, this fall, and take the Agri- 
cultural Course — the part that deals with horses 
and cattle and dry-farming, and all that ■ — ^ it’s really 
splendid — and then when you’ve finished, you can 
come back and go in for ranching on a larger 
scale — ” 

“ Jiminy! ” cried the lad. “ That sounds good.” 

“ It’s a good-enough idea, Isabel,” interposed 
Mrs. Houston; “ only we must be careful not to 
force our ideas on Stephen, but let him do as he 
honestly thinks best. People should be left as free 
as possible, without suggestions and urgings.” 


264 Isabel Carleton in the West 

Stephen was gazing absorbedly down the valley. 
He had not heard what Mrs. Houston had said. 
“ I wonder if I could do it? ” he was saying. “ I 
wonder if it would be right, and if — ” 

“ You’d like it at Jefferson,” Isabel remarked, 
trying to curb her enthusiasm. “ There’s so much 
freedom and democracy there; it isn’t so narrow and 
cramped as some of the colleges, and the students 
have such good times. There’s a lot of outdoor life 
— walking, and rowing, and sailing, and ski-ing, and 
canoeing, and ice-boating; and then the baseball, and 
football, and track athletics. You’d like it all, tre- 
mendously.” 

“ Gee! I guess I would. But I’d be scared stiff 
of the professors and the classes and the examina- 
tions and things. I’d be making a donkey of my- 
self, three-fourths of the time I ” 

“ No, you wouldn’t. You’d have just as good a 
chance as any other fellow.” 

“ It would be great.” Stephen had a dazzled 
look. 

“ He doesn’t have to make up his mind just at this 
minute,” consoled Mrs. Houston. “ It’s really an 
important question.” 

“ There are lots of things to be thought about,” 
breathed Stephen. 

“Money?” asked the older woman quietly. 
“ There’s always that to consider.” 

“ I have some,” the young man said. 
“My — er — relatives in Michigan have sent me 
a little every year, and it’s been put in the bank; 
and then there was that that father got from the 


Decisions 


265 

Express Company, when we caught the robbers — 
that the Company gave him, I mean. Father turned 
it over to me, and it’s been in the bank all this time 
— more than six years. It isn’t an awful lot, all 
added together, but it would be a beginning.” 

“ Yes, indeed.” This from Isabel. 

“ Perhaps I could do something to earn a little 
extra. Don’t some of the fellows do that? ” 

“ Loads of them. Why, there are some that earn 
every single cent, but I think that’s too hard. It 
makes life too much of a grind.” 

“ But with what I have to begin on,” said Stephen 
vaguely. 

“ Won’t your father insist on giving you some- 
thing? ” asked Mrs. Houston. 

“ Probably. But I don’t want to take any more 
than I can help. He needs all he can make.” 

“ It’s nice to be independent,” Mrs. Houston con- 
ceded, looking at Isabel. “ Nobody realizes that 
better than I do.” 

“ Anyhow, if they are willing that you should 
go to Jefferson, you won’t hang back too much, will 
you? ” said Isabel to Stephen. 

“ No. Not if we can fix it up so that it’ll be 
satisfactory all round.” 

“ I believe you can,” said Mrs. Houston. 

They clambered down from the promontory, feel- 
ing that some progress had been made. Stephen 
was to write and tell them how things came out, 
when he had talked with his foster-parents on the 
ranch. 

The next morning Stephen rode away, anxious to 


266 Isabel Carleton in the West 

come to a conclusion with regard to his career. 
“ See you in Jefferson, probably,” he said in a low 
voice to Isabel, as he said good-by. 

“ It won’t be long,” Isabel returned. “ Perhaps 
you can go East on the same train that we do.” 

“ I’d like that.” 

“ And, you know, we’d help you get started in 
college — show you about, and tell you how to do 
things. It would make it a lot easier. And of 
course we could help you to get acquainted. And 
then there’s Fanny” — Isabel teased him a bit; 
“ you know you’re anxious to meet her.” 

“ I’d be awfully afraid of her,” insisted Stephen, 
blushing. 

“ Well, you’ll see.” They shook hands, and the 
young man turned to say good-by to the others. 

Isabel and Mrs. Houston watched as he rode 
down the valley. “ I feel that this isn’t the last 
we’ll see of Stephen,” said Isabel. “ I feel just as 
sure of seeing him in Jefferson as if we were there 
now.” 

“ Probably you’re right,” answered Mrs. Hous- 
ton. “ I haven’t a doubt that he can work it out.” 

A day or two passed with the resumption of the 
old relations at the village. The time for staying 
was short, and every one wanted to make the most 
of it. Little was said about the future, but there 
was a good deal of private thinking going on. 

And now another incident took place, which gave 
an exciting touch to these last days of indecision. 

The Hurd children. Rose and Freddy, were 
spending Sunday with the Villagers. They had been 
pampered and teased and amused for the better part 


Decisions 


267 

of the day, and now they were playing by themselves 
at a little distance from the cabins, and beyond the 
rivulet which flowed into the larger stream. In this 
section of the hillside, which verged toward the 
work-camp, was the old sand-pit from which the en- 
gineers had taken the sand for the concrete of the 
first weir. 

Some of the workmen had gone on a tramp to 
Martaville for purposes of their own, and some had 
gone to bathe in the cold waters of the stream, where 
it widened, a half-mile below. Mrs. Houston, her 
husband, and Meta had strolled up the gulch, to talk 
over some of their plans for the rest of the summer 
and fall. The two young men were stretched with 
magazines on the grass of the Promised Land; for a 
rough bridge now replaced that which had been 
swept away. 

Isabel, satisfied that the children were safely 
diverting themselves with a “ playhouse ’’ marked 
out by small stones into various imaginary rooms, 
was also glancing into a fresh magazine which 
tempted her by its illustrations. She sat on a rock 
where she could hear the youngsters and keep in 
touch with them. 

After a while she became conscious of a stillness, 
a cessation of the low busy voices of the children at 
play. The sudden quiet had something ominous in 
it. Isabel remembered that through and under- 
neath her concentration upon the magazine she had 
heard a sliding noise and a stifled cry. Now they 
resounded like thunder in her brain. She started up 
and took two steps, to where she could see the spot 
on which the children had been crouching, arranging 


268 Isabel Carleton in the West 

the partitions of their imaginary dwelling. Rose 
and Freddy had disappeared. 

Sweeping the vicinity in apprehension, Isabel’s eye 
lighted on the place where the sand had been dug 
out from the hillside. There was a fresh rift there 
like a new scar. The sand was slipping in a leisurely 
way down the top of the recently augmented 
pile. 

For an instant Isabel was powerless to move. 
Then she gave a wild choking scream. “ Rodney ! 
George!” she cried. “Come — come quickly! 
Oh, come, come ! ” 

The two young men came running, clattering 
across the unsteady bridge. “What is it?” they 
shouted as they came. 

“ Oh, the children — Freddy and Rose ! They’re 
buried under the sand. Oh, save them ! save 
them ! ” 

A whiteness settled over the face of Rodney. He 
groaned. “ We’ll try,” he said sternly. 

“ Shovels ! picks ! ” George was saying. “ The 
men — oh, they’re all gone, aren’t they? We’ll 
have to do it alone. Rod.” 

The two young men ran swiftly to the work-shacks 
for their implements. They began digging fren- 
ziedly. Isabel stood half-dazed, saying to herself, 
“ It can’t be — it can’t be too late.” 

A shovel struck something hard. “ The log sup- 
ports,” muttered Rodney. “ We must pry them up. 
I’ll get a crowbar.” But George had already dashed 
for it, and Rodney went on digging like a madman. 

George came back with the heavy bar. They in- 
serted it under a log. It gave a little and then 


Decisions 


269 

sprang back. Isabel, breathing hard, stood pinching 
her hands tight together in her effort to keep from 
crying out. The boys bent to their task, working 
methodically and rapidly. Drops of sweat stood on 
their foreheads. They were silent except for low 
words of caution or direction. They succeeded in 
prying up, one by one, the heavy logs which had sup- 
ported the opening of the pit. “ I can’t bear it,” 
Isabel was whispering with stiff lips. 

“ Ah-h ! ” George gave a long exclamation. Step- 
ping nearer, Isabel saw a little hand protruding from 
the space under the frame-work. “ Easy, easy, 
ee-asy,” George kept murmuring. Cautiously, 
slowly, so as not to dislodge any of the precarious 
masses of sand and rock, the prying and digging 
went on. And then, all at once, George was lifting 
Rose tenderly out of the hollow where she lay. She 
hung limp in his arms. He bent his face over hers, 
looking for signs of life. 

Isabel was shaking so much that she could scarcely 
move forward toward the child. “ Is she — is 
she — ? ” The stammering words would not shape 
themselves. 

“ I don’t think so,” answered George calmly. 
“ She’s not crushed. The logs protected her. It’s 
lack of air.” 

He laid the child on the grass, and began the mo- 
tions of artificial respiration. Rhythmically, unhur- 
riedly, his strong hands raised and lowered the little 
arms. He glanced over at Rodney, who was still at 
the work of finding the younger child. Then he 
lowered his eyes to his task. 

• ‘ She’s breathing,” he said with satisfaction. 


270 


Isabel Garleton in the West 


“ Now, Isabel, you look after her. I’ve got to help 
Rod. He can’t lift those things alone.” 

Isabel took his place at the head of the prostrate 
little form, and went through the motions. She 
dared not look to see how the rescue of Freddy was 
progressing. Rose breathed irregularly for a few 
minutes, then gasped and wheezed, then took a long 
natural breath. The child stirred and whimpered. 
Isabel took her into her own arms and held her close. 

Not till then did she see that the young engineers 
had finished their labors and were lifting the boy out 
of the dark hole under the scaffolding. Crouched 
on the earth, with Rose clutching at her shoulders, 
she watched the men working to restore the little 
lad to life. There was an endless moment of uncer- 
tainty — Isabel never knew how long. There was a 
horrible stillness, broken by the incessant chatter and 
bubble of the stream, and the almost inaudible words 
of the men. Isabel looked about at the silent slopes, 
bright in the afternoon sun, the somnolent and un- 
pitying quiescence of the mountains. Through her 
mind was running the thought, over and over, I 
will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence 
cometh my helpJ* They seemed almost ironical, for 
the great mountains were indifferent to any human 
tragedy going on below. 

Then it came to the girl’s clarified mind that the 
hills were not mere heights of stone, but a high un- 
derstanding of spiritual things, like the “ mount ” 
from which the greatest sermon in the world had 
been preached. “ God is here,” she whispered, and 
felt at peace. She sat down, and held Rose against 
her breast, taking care that the little girl’s eyes 


Decisions 271 

should not search out the form of her small brother. 
“Are you all right, dear? ’’ she asked. 

Rose nodded, her lips trembling. “ Something 
came tumbling down,” she quavered; “ and it was 
all dark.” 

“ But it’s light, now,” Isabel replied in a soothing 
tone. “ See how the sun shines. In a few minutes 
we’ll go into the house. One of the men will carry 
you.” 

“ Can’t I walk? ” asked Rose doubtfully. 

“ Of course you can. But it would be rather nice 
to ride, wouldn’t it? ” 

“ Yes.” Rose settled back and closed her eyes. 

Isabel glanced over her shoulder. She had heard 
a low word of relief from Rodney. Her heart 
jumped. Another glance showed her that the little 
boy had moved, and that he was spluttering and 
gasping. A glow of thankfulness filled her soul. 

“ Where’s Freddy? ” Rose was trying to twist 
about. 

“ He’s all safe. We found him, too,” Isabel 
soothed her. “ Look ! Do you see that big magpie 
over there? Watch for the white under his wings 
when he flies.” 

Another look over her shoulder showed the girl 
that Freddy, dirty and ragged, was sitting up, and 
leaning against the stooping George, who was speak- 
ing words of encouragement : “ That’s the boy ! 

All right, eh? Fine as silk. Here, take hold of 
my hand. See how safe you are. Nothing to be 
scared of I ” 

“ All serene here, Isabel,” called Rodney in a 
queer strained voice. “ How’s Rose? ” 


272 Isabel Carleton in the West 

“ As good as new.” Isabel tried to laugh, but a 
sob came in her throat. “ I hope I’m not going to 
have hysterics,” she thought fearfully. 

“ We’d better take them to the house now,” 
George was saying in a matter-of-fact tone. “ I’ll 
carry this young sport, and Rod will carry Rose.” 
He lifted the boy into his arms. The color had 
come back into the young man’s face, but he was 
streaked and smeared with dirt and sweat, and his 
wavy auburn hair lay wet and dark along his fore- 
head. 

Rodney came over and stood beside Isabel. 
There was still a whiteness about his lips. “ How’s 
our little girl? ” he asked, looking down at Rose. 

“ I don’t think she’s hurt a bit. Rod.” The girl 
looked up and tried to smile. 

“ That’s good.” Rodney eyed Isabel anxiously. 
“ Pretty rough on you,” he said. “ All used up? ” 

“ No, not at all,” Isabel answered with a brisk- 
ness which she did not feel. “ I’m so relieved — 
just a trifle shaky — ” 

The young man leaned over and took Rose into 
his arms. George had already gone on with Freddy. 
Isabel tried to get up, and then she sank back again. 
She was conscious that Rodney was speaking, but his 
voice sounded far off, and she could not distinguish 
his words. At last she opened her eyes. Rodney 
was staring at her. “ Anything wrong? ” he asked. 

“ No, not a thing. I’ll go with you to the house.” 
She got up, surprised to And herself strong and clear 
of mind. She and Rodney made their way to the 
Ritz. George was there before them, and had put 
Freddy down in a canvas chair. The lad was a 


Decisions 


273 


sorry object. His clothes were torn and splotched 
with dirt, his stockings in ribbons, his legs bruised 
and grimy. He was crying a bit, from fright and 
relief combined. Rose’s gingham dress was still in- 
tact, though she had a red scratch along her knee. 
On the whole, she seemed to have been the more 
fortunate in the painful affair. 

Isabel hurried to wash the dirt from the two little 
faces, and to bring hot milk for the youngsters to 
drink. “Think they’re really all right?” asked 
Rodney at the door of the cabin. 

“ I’m sure they are.” Isabel spoke reassuringly, 
for she felt certain that the children had suffered no 
great injury. “ There are no bones broken, and no 
serious bruises or cuts. I think it’s marvelous, the 
way they’ve come out of it.” 

“Splendid! isn’t it?” The young man’s face 
lighted. 

“ If you and George hadn’t known what to do — ” 
Isabel had a catch in her voice. “ You two certainly 
distinguished yourselves.” 

“ What else could we do? ” asked Rodney in sur- 
prise. 

“ I don’t know. But you surely had presence of 
mind.” 

“ I hope our minds are always present,” the young 
man answered simply. 

Isabel went back to the children, and busied her- 
self with repairing as best she could the torn clothing 
which they wore, and in tying up the slight contusions 
which revealed themselves. Rose and Freddy had 
now been convinced that they were safe and unin- 
jured; they got up and ran about, losing their fright. 


274 Isabel Carleton in the West 

and giggling somewhat sorrily at each other’s looks. • 

By the time that the Houstons came back from 
their walk, the cabins had settled down to quiet and 
assurance, and the men had gone to gather up their 
tools and wash the signs of their exploit from their 
own hands and faces. There was nothing for the 
Houstons to do except marvel and express their 
gratitude for the deliverance of the children. 

“ I thought we had had all the adventures we were 
going to,” sighed Isabel. “ There didn’t seem to be 
anything else left.” 

“ I think this is the last,” said Mrs. Houston 
soberly; “ unless — ” she looked over whimsically at 
Meta and George, who were talking in the doorway, 
oblivious to the presence of the others. George had 
just come back, clean, from the tent. 

Isabel’s eyes sought the lady’s questioningly. 
Her gaze asked silently, “Has anything happened? ” 

“ Not yet,” murmured Mrs. Houston, “ but I sus- 
pect — ” 

Isabel had had her suspicions herself, although 
Meta had preserved a dignified quietness in regard 
to her feelings toward George Burnham. The next 
evening, after supper, Meta and George walked out 
along the stream toward the ascending valley. Mr. 
and Mrs. Houston sat down in the tent for the game 
of pinochle which they liked before the later gather- 
ing around the camp-fire. 

Rodney and Isabel busied themselves with getting 
the fuel piled up ready for the match; and then, as 
the sky darkened and nobody came, they kindled 
the heap, and sat back to watch it flare up in the dusk. 
Just then George and Meta stepped into the circle of 


Decisions 


275 


the light. Isabel could not see their faces clearly, 
but she felt something unusual in their pose and 
manner. They did not reply to Rodney’s fluent 
greeting, but George said in as commonplace a tone 
as he could command, “ Well, Rod, I’ve decided 
about Chelford’s offer.” 

“ What’s the decree? ” asked Rodney eagerly. 

“ I’m going to accept.” 

“ And stay out here — a year? ” Rodney spoke 
evenly, looking across the fire at George, who seemed 
unusually tall in the flickering glare. 

“ Yes; or until they call us to go to France.” 

Isabel was searching Meta’s face. The older girl 
seemed radiant in the fire-light. “ We’ll miss you in 
Jefferson, George,” said Isabel. 

“ I hope so. I’d hate to be forgotten.” George 
glanced sidewise at Meta. 

‘‘ I congratulate you, old fellow,” said Rodney 
heartily. “ I thought you couldn’t resist. I never 
had any idea, until lately, how the West holds one. 
It’s almost impossible to get away.” 

“ It’s fascinating, all right. And the offer’s all 
right. Andl hope to make good, now that I have 
my chance.” George spoke with the exuberance of 
the young man who sees many wonderful things be- 
fore him. “ And Meta — ” 

“ We’re going to tell the family about it,” said 
Meta quickly. There was something in her voice 
that sent a thrill through the heart of Isabel. 

The two young people moved away, out of the 
circle of the fire. But as they went, George turned 
back to remark, “ And Meta and I have come to 
another decision, too. She — that is, I — we’re 


276 Isabel Carleton in the West 

going to be — that is, we’re engaged ! ” They 
hurried up the slope to the tent, before Rodney and 
Isabel had found anything to say. 

Isabel drew a long breath. “ Well, it comes as a 
kind of surprise,” she said faintly, “ even though 
we’ve been expecting it. How happy they looked. 
It’s splendid, isn’t it, Rod? ” 

“ Very,” said Rodney. He was looking hard into 
the fire. 

Isabel hardly knew what to say next. She sat 
without speaking, dwelling in her thoughts on this 
beautiful thing which had come to Meta. It was a 
cause for rejoicing, but already she and her friend 
seemed separated — not quite the same. 

“ I’ve come to my decision,” announced Rodney at 
last. He was breaking twigs nervously and tossing 
them into the flame. 

“ Oh, what? ” said Isabel. “ You aren’t going to 
stay here, too, are you — just because George is? ” 

“No. I’m going back. It’s best for me to spend 
one more year in school, and finish. I see that per- 
fectly.” 

“ I thought so, all along,” ventured the girl; “ but 
I didn’t like to say so.” She felt a sense of exulta- 
tion at knowing that Rodney would be back in Jeffer- 
son next year. There might come a time when he 
would be very far away — in France; or farther. 
“ I’m awfully glad, Rod.” 

“ I’m sure it’s best. I’ve had some fine experi- 
ence, and I’ll have more before the summer is over. 
But college is something that one has to see through 
to the end. There’s no use in lying down on the 
job.” 


Decisions 


277 


Isabel drew a long breath again. She had not 
realized how the uncertainty had worried her. 
“ You won’t regret it,” she responded. “ One never 
does.” There was another silence; and then Isabel, 
with a sensitiveness which had been enhanced by 
George’s words and Meta’s radiant air, felt some- 
thing vibrating unsaid. Terror took hold of her. 
She felt that she must get up and run into the cabin 
which was her home. She hesitated, ready for 
flight. 

Rodney was speaking,- — “ Isabel, why can’t 
we — ? ” 

The girl put out a hand to stop him. “ Oh, no, 
Rodney,” she begged softly. “ Wait. Not now.” 

The fire lighted the young man’s eyes as he turned 
and looked at her. “Well — some other time,” 
said Rodney. 


THE END 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 














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